


From This Day Forward: Anxiety And Affection

by flawedamythyst



Series: From This Day Forward [2]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Child Abuse, Deaf Clint Barton, Disabled Bucky Barnes, Domestic Violence, Lucky the Dog - Freeform, M/M, Minor James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pining, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Bucky had wanted to woo Clint properly, escort him to balls and take him for country walks, and make sure that Clint knew just how precious he was to Bucky before he finally proposed. He’d wanted Clint to say yes with his eyes wide open and nothing coercing him beyond how he felt about Bucky.Instead, Bucky had barely said ten words to him before the deal had been struck with his father, and now he was having to try and woo Clint after they were already married, when he was clearly suspicious about the circumstances he had ended up in.The first time Bucky saw Clint, he fell in love. It took him seven years after that to marry him and now all he wants is to make sure he's happy. Even if it means giving up everything he's been hoping for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: From This Day Forward [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638448
Comments: 295
Kudos: 781
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Same deal as last time, I owe everything to Nny and CB, there are three chapters that will posted fairly quickly, then another two stories in the series after that.
> 
> Written for the Winterhawk Bingo square 'Lucky the Pizza Dog'.
> 
> I have taken some minor inspiration from the Sharpe series, so if you know it and something looks familiar, that's probably why.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Header by drgirlfriend. 

Bucky hadn’t slept much on his first two nights as a married man, and it didn’t seem as if he was going to manage a great deal on his third either. 

Instead he lay awake, staring up at the dim canopy of his bed, thinking about how Clint Barton was only a wall away and he was Clint Barnes now. Bucky’s husband.

A shiver of excitement ran through him and he rolled on to his side to try and shake out some of the nervous energy. This was ridiculous, surely he should be starting to get used to being married and not still fizzing with glee like a small boy on Christmas morning?

Besides, as much as Bucky had wanted this for years, it wasn’t exactly ideal circumstances. Bucky had wanted to woo Clint properly, escort him to balls and take him for country walks, and make sure that Clint knew just how precious he was to Bucky before he finally proposed. He’d wanted Clint to say yes with his eyes wide open and nothing coercing him beyond how he felt about Bucky.

Instead, Bucky had barely said ten words to him before the deal had been struck with his father, and now he was having to try and woo Clint after they were already married, when he was clearly suspicious about the circumstances he had ended up in.

Bucky took a deep breath and then released it. If Clint decided that he wasn’t going to be wooed, and that he couldn’t bring himself to love a crippled ex-soldier who hadn’t yet managed to let go of the war, then Bucky would have to follow through on his promise to go to London and leave Clint alone. He wasn’t going to be another person in Clint’s life who'd lied to him and manipulated him, even if it meant never seeing him again.

No. No, it wouldn’t come to that. Clint would give Bucky a chance, and that would be enough. He might not have felt the same lightning bolt that Bucky had felt seven years ago, when they first met, but he would feel something if Bucky just tried hard enough. There was no way Bucky could be alone in feeling so much.

Bucky could still remember every detail of that first night he'd seen Clint as if it were only hours ago instead of years. It had been a rather staid party and Bucky had been bored even before Stark had started baiting Steve, but that had been when he'd completely lost interest in being part of it. He’d wandered out into the gardens expecting to find nothing more than peace and quiet, and perhaps the odd courting couple, but instead he’d found everything.

The steady, rhythmic twang of the bow string and the thud of an arrow hitting a target had drawn his attention and he’d followed it until he’d turned a corner around a hedge and seen perfection.

Clint had been dressed in nothing more than a pale shirt and dark breeches, and even in the dim moonlight, Bucky had been able to see that every line of his body was beautiful. Bucky had stopped in shock which had turned to wonder as he’d realised that, despite the dark of the night, every arrow was hitting the bullseye, forming a careful circle right in the centre.

It had felt like something out of a fairytale. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Clint had turned around and had elf eyes, shining silver in the moonlight, or if just watching him had doomed Bucky to a thousand years in the land of the fae.

It would have been a price he’d willingly have paid, if Clint had been with him.

When Clint had turned and Bucky had finally seen his face, it was better than if he had revealed himself to be magical. He was so handsome that it had taken Bucky’s breath away, and when he’d found it again, he’d spoken without even thinking.

“Will you marry me?”

Clint hadn’t answered. He’d just run off, taking his bow with him but leaving the arrows in the target.

Bucky’s feet had itched to chase him but if he didn’t want to be caught, then there was no sense in pursuing him. Bucky had thought back then that he would just have to make sure he put himself where he could see Clint again and again, until he stayed to talk to Bucky rather than fleeing, and then Bucky could start on winning him over until it felt safe to ask his question again, and hope for a ‘yes’ in reply.

So instead of chasing Clint, Bucky had gone to look at the arrows, half-expecting to find they were enchanted in some way, but they were just wood and feathers, nothing special.

He’d pulled one free and taken it with him when he’d gone back to the ball, because the interlude had seemed so strange and uncanny that he’d felt like he needed proof for himself that it hadn’t been a dream.

He still had the arrow, tucked into the longest drawer of his desk. 

How differently would that evening have gone if Clint had been at the ball as a guest rather than hidden out in the garden? If his father had allowed him to join the dancing and polite conversation, would Bucky still have been as captivated by him?

Bucky couldn’t imagine any way that he could have met Clint that wouldn’t have sent that thrill of attraction and wonder through him. If Clint had been at the ball, he would have asked him to dance, and Clint would have said yes and let Bucky take his hand.

Or so Bucky liked to imagine, at any rate. Given that Clint hadn’t even wanted to dance at his own wedding, perhaps he would have refused and melted away, just like he had in the garden.

Like it still felt he might now, even with Bucky’s ring on his finger.

Bucky twitched with the urge to check that Clint was still in his room, that he hadn’t already disappeared.

No. He’d promised Clint that he’d never enter his room without his permission and he intended to keep his word. He was going to be an exemplary husband and he was going to make Clint feel as safe and happy as he could, because it was very clear that he hadn’t had that in his father’s house and he deserved it.

He deserved so much more, but Bucky didn’t think he’d let him give it to him. Not yet, anyway. Bucky just had to be patient.

He resolutely shut his eyes, but sleep was a long time coming.

****

The first week of their married life shifted between feeling like a dream. Like when Bucky managed to make Clint laugh, or got him to accept a tiny kindness without having to face down his suspicious caution first, or even just caught sight of him and had an exhilarating rush of realisation that this beautiful man was his husband. Other times, Bucky had the horribly tentative feeling that all it would take was one more wrong move, and he’d lose it all.

It didn’t help that Bucky couldn’t always tell what the wrong move had been, only that Clint would shut back down into himself, going silent and still as if trying to turn invisible. All Bucky could do when that happened was to stay at a distance, looking as harmless as possible, and keep talking until Clint relaxed out of it.

That wasn’t the worst, though. The worst was when Bucky moved too fast or let his voice get too loud and Clint actually flinched away from him, eyes darting around to the nearest exit in a way that looked automatic, and that Bucky wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing. The idea that Bucky would ever hurt him in a way that would warrant such a reaction made him feel sick to his stomach.

He did his best not to draw attention to it, though. He just made sure his posture was easy, that he wasn’t too close to Clint or blocking his way out of a room, and smiled. It seemed as if all he could do until Clint had settled in and relaxed a bit was make it clear that Bucky was not, and would never be, a threat to him.

He couldn’t help comparing it to when he had first come back from Spain, after Steve had freed him from imprisonment and torture. It had taken him a very long time to be comfortable in a room when the doors and windows were shut, or to let the servants near him if they were carrying anything that could be a weapon, like cutlery or glassware.

It had taken time, and bringing in some of the men he had served with and who he’d known he could trust, before he’d been able to pull himself back into a semblance of the man he had been. It had been nearly two years after his return to England when he’d looked in the mirror and seen someone he recognised, someone who he thought might be worthy of being Clint Barton’s husband.

Not that Lord Barton had shown any sign of caring about that when Bucky had approached him to ask for Clint’s hand. His eyes had lit up as soon as Bucky had discreetly mentioned a financial gift in return, and he’d immediately started talking his son up as if he were livestock for sale. Bucky had been left with the uncomfortable impression that he’d have sold Clint to slavers, if any had shown any interest.

It was something to hold on to, whenever he found himself wondering if someone who had been broken as thoroughly as he had deserved to be married to someone as perfect as Clint. Perhaps Clint should have been given the chance for a marriage to someone as beautiful as he was, inside and out, but Bucky had been his only chance to get away from his father’s house and all the abuses that had gone on there. No matter whether Clint deserved someone better than Bucky, he definitely deserved to be free of his father.

The morning after Clint’s range was finished, he immediately took all his archery equipment down to it and settled in as if intending to spend the whole day there. Bucky had come out with him after breakfast, pretending he was merely on his way to the stables and just stopping to watch out of polite interest, when really it was all he could do not to vibrate with excitement at the idea of watching Clint shoot again.

“Do you mind if I stay for your first couple of shots?” he asked. “If anything needs changing, I can let Jones and Dernier know.”

Clint had been sorting through something in his quiver and when he glanced up Bucky could tell he hadn’t caught all of Bucky's words. He wore a faint, irritated frown whenever he missed something that Bucky always wanted to wipe away with his thumb.

“I’m sorry?” he said, and Bucky repeated himself, relieved that this wasn’t one of the occasions when Clint just nodded and gave the vague smile that meant he didn’t know what Bucky had said but that he wasn’t going to ask.

Clint just shrugged. “If you want,” he said, shifting the quiver over his shoulder with a ripple of muscle that made Bucky’s breath catch. Clint had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and the strong lines of his wrists and forearms were very clearly on display, which Bucky was trying his best not to fixate on too obviously. He had a sturdy leather cuff on one of them, but it looked battered and well-used. Bucky marked a replacement down on his mental list of small gifts he could buy for Clint. He'd need to space them out so as not to overwhelm him, which meant he had enough now for the next few months and a feeling that he'd be adding many more. Enough for a lifetime. 

“As long as you don’t expect me to pay you any attention,” Clint added, with a sharp grin of pleasure. “Once I start shooting, I become very focused.”

“I’ll only be here a few minutes,” said Bucky. “Morita will have Alpine ready and waiting for me.”

Clint nodded, then turned to face down the range, pulling an arrow from his quiver and setting it to his bow. The grin was still on his face and the small part of Bucky’s mind that couldn’t help but spend all its time contemplating such things wondered if that was how he would look in bed, wholly focused on his and his partner’s pleasure.

Clint stayed still for a fraction of a second, then pulled back and fired in a fluid, practiced movement, every part of his body moving with ease and familiarity.

Just as he had the first time he had seen such a thing, and the second time when he'd gone to speak to Clint after completing the negotiations with his father, Bucky’s mouth opened to say, “Marry me,” without waiting for input from his brain.

Clint didn’t hear him, which was for the best. Bucky reminded himself that he was already married to Clint, that this perfect example of strength and grace was his husband. It didn't seem quite real, even with the weight of a ring on his finger to prove that it was.

Clint fired again, and then again, working in a steady rhythm as his shots clustered in the centres of the three targets Jones and Dernier had set up. Bucky found himself both lulled by the sight and excited by it, until he had to walk away or risk his breeches becoming tight enough to cause a scandal.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he said, as loudly as he could so that Clint would hear him, and just got a vague hum of acknowledgement in response. Well, Clint had warned him that he wouldn’t be aware of anything beyond his shooting.

Bucky took a slow pace to the stables, concentrating his mind on various business concerns as much as possible while he could still hear the twang and thump of Clint’s shots behind him. Morita’s cousin was a young woman, after all, and it wouldn’t do for her to see him in the condition that watching Clint’s shooting left him in.

Clint was almost late to lunch, coming in as the footmen brought out the dishes, still carrying his bow. He looked completely suffused with happiness and Bucky couldn’t hold in a smile at the sight of him. He had caused that, if only tangentially by having the range built. At least some fraction of that smile was because of him.

“Did you have a good morning?” Bucky asked, and signed the one-armed version of the phrase that Clint had come up with for him.

“Excellent,” said Clint, and his smile somehow managed to grow even wider, until Bucky felt dazzled by it. “The range is perfect, thank you.”

“You designed it,” Bucky reminded him, but the only response was a self-deprecating shrug. “Will you go back this afternoon?”

“Of course,” said Clint, as if any normal person wouldn’t be aching and tired from a whole morning of pulling back a bowstring. Bucky let his eyes rest on Clint’s shoulders, hidden beneath his jacket, and wondered just how well-formed they were. Good, he hoped to one day get to see them uncovered.

If Clint was going to spend the afternoon at his range then Bucky would go to his study, where his desk looked out of the window right above it, and he could pretend to be writing to his sister while he stared at Clint and daydreamed.

****

Bucky couldn’t remember ever having been as tense about a social engagement as he was about the cards evening he had planned as Clint’s proper introduction to his friends.

“It will be four guests, and the two of us, will you be able to cope with the conversation?” he asked at lunch the day before it was scheduled for.

“I’ll be fine,” said Clint, but Bucky wasn’t sure he could believe him, not when he so clearly didn’t want to cause a fuss.

“I’ll ask Coulson to stay in the room, and you can signal him if you need any translation,” he decided.

Clint opened his mouth as if to protest, but shut it again without saying anything, ducking his head. Bucky felt a surge of frustration but didn’t say anything, because the only way to encourage Clint to speak up was to show him that he could trust Bucky, and that was going to take a lot longer than a week.

“Miss Romanov you know, of course, and Steve you’ve met. The other guests will be Reverend Wilson, and Earl Stark.” He considered the group dynamics for a moment. “Stark will likely be the most difficult for your ears. He talks far too quickly but most of it is nonsense, so don't worry if you do miss something.”

Clint was frowning. “Reverend Wilson is the local vicar, isn’t he?”

“He is,” agreed Bucky, and then wondered if he shouldn’t have taken some time this week to introduce Clint to the neighbours. “If you wish, we can walk into the village this afternoon and call on him, so that you will have met him before tomorrow. He’s been here for just over a year, and is very close to Steve.”

“Close?” asked Clint with interest. “As friends, or…? Barney said that the rumour was that Captain Rogers and Earl Stark were the close ones.”

Bucky shook his head. “That’s just the impression they like to give,” he said. “They are merely friends. Steve and Reverend Wilson, on the other hand, are heading towards a closer relationship than friendship, but they are moving very slowly.”

“Ah, I see,” said Clint, but he didn’t because there was so much more to it than that.

Bucky let out a slow breath, thinking that they were as one now that they were married, and so Clint should know some of the same secrets that Bucky did. He glanced at the door to make sure no servants were likely to come in, and leaned closer.

“Steve was married,” he said carefully, trying not to let his voice automatically dip in volume so Clint could still hear clearly. “In Spain.”

Clint’s eyes widened with surprise. “I didn’t hear about that.”

“No one did,” said Bucky. “He met her just before I was captured. She was a Spanish partisan, she led a large band that had significant success against the French.” He felt the corner of his mouth twitch with amusement, because this part would never stop being funny. “They called her ‘La Aguja’. The Needle.”

Clint blinked slowly. “That’s, uh. Quite a name.”

Bucky nodded, catching Clint’s eye and seeing the same amusement there that he had always had to stifle when he’d heard people using it. “I don’t think she chose it,” he said, in fairness to Peggy, because she hadn’t been the type to have much interest in nicknames. She was too busy killing Frenchmen. “She came with Steve when he rescued me,” he added, because that was a debt he could never repay. “And then…”

He sat back with a sigh, remembering the careful, stilted words Steve had used when he wrote to Bucky about Peggy’s death. “About six months later, after I was back in England, she was killed. Steve took it very hard.”

“Oh,” said Clint, softly, and Bucky nodded at his tone.

“Yes. He came home and didn’t want to talk about her, so we don’t, and their marriage was never public knowledge in Spain because that would have made her a target for the French. Those closest to him know, but he has used his friendship with Stark as a shield from wider society asking any questions about why he hasn’t been looking for a spouse.”

“That makes sense,” said Clint, although Bucky wasn’t sure anyone who hadn’t been there when Steve first came back from Spain, broken and stoic, could truly understand.

“Then the Reverend took up the parish last year, and since then…” said Bucky, and moved his hand to try and indicate the slow way that Steve and Wilson had been moving around each other, getting closer with miniscule steps while Bucky watched, and tried not to wonder out loud why Steve had to find his first spark of happiness since Peggy’s death with someone as annoying as Wilson.

Clint nodded. “And Earl Stark?” he said. “He doesn’t mind?”

Bucky laughed. “Oh no,” he said. “He has his own reasons to want to appear unavailable.”

Clint raised an eyebrow expectantly, but the door swung open and a footman came in to clear the plates, so Bucky just pressed his lips together and grinned at Clint, enjoying the frustrated look on his face. From the look Clint gave him as the footman left the room only to be replaced by a maid bringing in dessert, he wasn’t as amused.

When the door was finally closed behind the maid and they were alone again, Bucky picked up his spoon and gave Clint a bland smile. “This looks lovely,” he said, preparing to take a spoonful.

Clint reached out and snatched the spoon from his hand. “You don’t get to eat until you tell me about Earl Stark,” he said, and then a second later clearly realised what he had done.

His eyes widened and he dropped the spoon. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, flinching back even though Bucky hadn’t moved. He grabbed for the spoon and shoved it back towards Bucky. “Sorry, I didn’t mean- please don’t be angry, I didn’t mean to do that, I just wasn’t thinking.”

He was talking so fast with fear that his words tumbled over each other and Bucky felt all the light-heartedness drain out of him. He took the spoon back as gently as he could.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I wouldn’t react well to gossip being withheld either.”

That didn’t calm Clint down at all. His eyes were still large and he was balanced on his chair as if preparing for a quick escape. Bucky forced back his utter misery that Clint’s upbringing had led him to fear the kind of joking interactions that had always been part of Bucky’s life, and made himself take a bite of the dessert, keeping it as relaxed as possible and trying not to draw attention to the obvious fear keeping Clint paralysed.

“Earl Stark is staying the night here tomorrow, along with Steve and Miss Romanov,” he said, trying to move on from the moment so that Clint would calm down. He hadn’t really been sure that he’d share this much about Stark’s private life, but if it would relax Clint so they could move on from the tense moment, then he’d happily tell all his friends’ secrets. “You’ll notice that he’ll bring his valet with him, even though he is only staying one night and could just as easily borrow one of my footmen.”

Clint blinked. “Valet?” he repeated, clearly still focused on the perceived threat of Bucky’s anger. Bucky made himself relax back into his chair, forcing his shoulders to slump from their usual tension in an attempt to look less threatening. He hadn’t realised until he’d started forcing himself to let it go just how used he was to holding himself taut, ready for a threat that was never coming because Steve had ended it in a dramatic, and bloody, fashion.

“Rhodes,” he said. “Although Stark calls him Rhodey.”

Clint looked as if he were finally starting to settle back down. He let out a snort of laughter. “I think if I tried to give Coulson a nickname, he’d stab me with a tie pin.”

Bucky grinned at him wider than the joke really deserved, relief flooding through him that the moment had been put behind them. “Stark has always been too fond of nicknames,” he said. “Rhodes has never given any sign of minding, though. In fact, I would say it was the contrary.”

“Wha-” started Clint, then clearly got the innuendo in Bucky’s tone and stared at him. “No, really? Stark and his valet?”

Bucky nodded. “For as long as I have known him. He keeps it as quiet as he can, of course, and we never talk of it, but if you watch his eyes when Rhodes is in the room, it’s easy to see. He looks at him as if he hung the moon.”

_The way that I look at you,_ he didn’t add, because he’d felt the same look on his own face often enough for self-awareness.

Clint looked even more surprised. “There are emotions there? Not just-” he broke off, then made a grimace and vague wave of his hand that Bucky took to imply sex.

“Oh yes,” said Bucky. “They are as in love as any couple I have seen. Stark would definitely have married him years ago, if it were possible.”

Stark and Rhodes could probably have found an open-minded vicar to marry them if they had looked hard enough, but the resultant backlash would not have been worth it, even for a man who cared as little about society’s opinion as Stark did. An Earl who married so far below himself as to have a servant as a husband would stop receiving any invitations from society, and might even find his title withdrawn by the Crown. Certainly any children that he and Rhodes jointly raised, regardless of whose blood they had, would be considered too plebian to inherit Stark’s nobility.

As rich as Bucky’s family had been his whole life, and for most of his father’s, society had never forgotten that his grandfather had started out a yeoman farmer, albeit a comparatively wealthy one. His sister would never have been considered a suitable wife for any of the older families from the gentry, let alone any noble ones, and the only reason Bucky had been able to marry into a noble family like the Bartons had been because of just how little the Baron valued his younger son, and how disastrous his financial circumstances had become.

For Stark, as the only heir of an ancient family who had come across with William the Conqueror, a marriage for love that would destroy all that heritage and prestige in one cruel blow clearly didn’t seem worth it when he and Rhodes were already able to live as closely as if they were married, so long as they kept their true relationship a secret from any but those closest to them.

Or at least, that was what Bucky assumed they had decided. It was widely understood amongst those close enough to Stark to know the truth that you didn’t ever mention it to him.

The footman came back in to remove their dessert dishes and Bucky and Clint both went quiet. Once he was gone, Clint settled back, glancing out of the window towards the woods. It was a warm day, but the occasional cloud passed in front of the sun, keeping it from being unbearable. 

“It seems there is a lot going on beneath the surface with your friends,” said Clint, looking back at Bucky. “Is there anything else I should know before tomorrow?”

Bucky shook his head. “Nothing they won’t tell you themselves,” he said. “Or that you won’t notice on your own.”

Clint made a face that made it clear how much he doubted that, but he didn’t comment. “I think I would like to walk into the village,” he said carefully, “if you wouldn’t mind the trip.”

“Of course,” said Bucky, thinking about walking beside his husband in front of the whole neighbourhood, and smiling. “We can call on Wilson and perhaps Doctor Richards, and I will show you the other notable houses in the area.”

Clint nodded and stood up. “I will need to change my shoes, then.”

He left the room and Bucky watched him go, taking his chance to take in the broad reach of his shoulders and the trim line of his waist. _That man is my husband,_ he thought, and smiled at the idea of showing him off where everyone could see them.

****

Steve, Stark and Miss Romanov arrived together the next day, an hour or so before dinner was due to be served. Bucky greeted them with Clint at his side and tried not to roll his eyes when he caught Steve’s pleased, proud look.

“You’re both looking well,” said Stark, grinning far wider than he had a right to. “It seems like married life agrees with you.”

“It’s been little more than a week,” Bucky pointed out dryly, which only served to make Stark’s smile grow even more.

“Imagine how you’re going to look in a year, then,” he said. “You’ll be glowing like a Botticelli.” He glanced over his shoulder at where Rhodes had come in with his bags. “Am I in the usual room? I'll see you before dinner then, I need a bath. Rhodey.” He twitched his head at the stairs and took off up them, followed at a more sedate pace by his valet.

Bucky heard Clint let out a barely-there huff of amusement and tried not to let his mouth twitch into a smile in response.

“Will you show me to my room?” Miss Romanov asked Clint. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Ah, of course,” said Clint, with the note of distant panic that Bucky had started to associate with him turning up in completely the wrong part of the house. He glanced over at Wilkins, who gave him the tiniest of nods, then stepped forward to take Miss Romanov’s bags.

“Allow me, Miss,” he said, then turned to take them upstairs, keeping just enough ahead of Clint that he’d be able to follow him without making it obvious that he still hadn’t got the full layout of Brooklyn straight in his head.

Bucky found himself caught on the view of Clint heading upstairs, already watching Miss Romanov sign something to him with fluid movements. Bucky felt a surge of jealousy at how easily she was able to communicate, and stomped it down.

“So, how is it?” asked Steve, and Bucky tore his eyes away to look at him. “Is your paragon of perfection everything you expected? Still going to talk my ear off half the night about how great he is, or has actually knowing him dimmed that?”

Bucky glanced up to make sure that Clint was out of earshot, then turned back to Steve’s stupid, gloating grin. “Oh god, Stevie,” he said, with desperation, “it’s made it worse.” 

“I don’t see how that could be possible,” said Steve. “Speaking as the man who has spent actual years listening to you dissect one brief encounter over and over again.”

Bucky thought about trying to retain some dignity and playing the whole thing off, but there didn’t seem much point. Steve was right, he’d been there for every aching moment of longing and every desperate attempt to find a way to get to know Clint, and he knew Bucky far too well to let him get away with pretending he wasn’t in way over his head right now.

Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anyone else who Bucky could really talk to about this, and he needed to get some of it out, or it felt as if he might explode.

He flopped forward to rest his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “He does archery in the garden,” he said, muffled by Steve’s jacket. “All day! In his shirt sleeves! Sometimes he rolls them up so I can see his forearms, and his _smile_ , Steve, he’s killing me.”

Steve patted gently at Bucky’s shoulder. “Your poor fellow,” he said, and his amusement sounded as if it were about to bubble over. “It sounds like you’re in love with your husband.”

“So in love,” muttered Bucky, then straightened up and stepped away, clearing his throat because he hadn’t meant to admit that. Steve was openly laughing at him now, so Bucky scowled at him. “Shut up.”

Steve grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, heading for the stairs and the room he’d lived in since he was a boy. “Oh no, this is too good to shut up about,” he said. “I want to hear all about it.” He glanced over his shoulder as Bucky started following him. “Stark’s right, you know,” he added. “You do look good. Happy.”

“It’s easy to be happy around Clint,” said Bucky, and Steve just kept laughing.

Bucky waited until they were in Steve’s room, door shut behind them as Bucky slumped on the bed and Steve started to unpack before he brought up what was actually bothering him. “He’s scared a lot,” he said. “He flinches if I move too fast or raise my voice too much, and I know there are times when he does what he thinks I want him to do rather than what he actually wants to do.”

“It’s only been a week,” Steve said, gently. “Give him time, Bucky. He’ll work out that you’re not going to hurt him.”

Bucky waved that away, because he knew it was just a matter of time before Clint started to believe Bucky when he said he wasn’t anything like the Baron. “I know, but...What if when he realises I’m telling the truth, he decides that he doesn’t want me around? What if he asks me to go to London and leave him be?”

He’d offered Clint that option, and he’d do it if asked, but he could already tell that it would break his heart to have to walk away.

“If he does, he’s an idiot,” said Steve.

“Not helpful,” said Bucky, flopping backwards onto the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “It wouldn’t be the stupidest idea to get rid of the man who tied him in to a marriage he had very little choice in. He didn’t know me at all, Steve, what if when he gets to know me properly he decides he doesn’t want me? Not even as a friend?”

“Then he’s an idiot,” repeated Steve in a firmer voice. “You’re a good man, Bucky, and you’ll be an excellent husband. If Clint doesn’t see that, then that’s his loss.”

That wasn’t actually helpful, although it was nice to hear Steve’s unshakeable confidence in him, especially after a week of questioning everything he did in case it was the thing that made Clint decide against him.

Bucky let out a long, slow sigh, and let it go for now. “Did you talk to Stark?” he asked instead, eyes still on the ceiling.

“Yes,” said Steve. “He was fine about it.”

Bucky lifted his head with a frown. “Fine about it? Stark was _fine_ about limiting himself to one or two drinks? That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Oh, he whined about it to start with,” said Steve. “You know how he is. But he gave in easily enough.” He paused, then sent Bucky a sharp look. “You know about his father. He understands.”

Bucky let his head fall back onto the bed, one of the coils of tension in the pit of his stomach unraveling. “I don’t want Clint to have any reason not to enjoy tonight.”

Steve and Sam both drank very little, if at all, and Bucky was sure that Miss Romanov knew Clint’s issues well enough to refrain, but Stark was known for dashing back fine cognac as if it were cheap ale. Bucky didn’t want Clint to have to deal with that, not on top of meeting new people. The evening seemed to have enough potential pitfalls without that as well.

“Then you should get out of here and go to dress, and let me dress,” said Steve, “or we’ll both be late and he’ll be left playing host alone.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but got up. “There’s still plenty of time,” he said. “You just want to get all shined up for Wilson.”

Steve went faintly pink, then resolutely crossed his arms. “Are you saying you haven’t been dressing with far more care than usual for the last week?”

“Got to look like a man who deserves to be married to the honourable Mr Clint Barton,” said Bucky, and then corrected himself, feeling the usual smile he got whenever he remembered he was actually married to Clint curving over his face, “the honourable Mr Clint Barnes.”

“My god, you’re too much,” said Steve. “Get out of here before you start to make me ill.”

Bucky saluted him and left him to it, his mind already going over his wardrobe to choose his outfit for tonight. He ran a hand over his chin. Perhaps he’d get Falsworth to shave him as well.

****

Stark stared at the table in disbelief as Bucky gathered the betting counters towards himself. “You’re cheating,” he said, in a disbelieving voice.

Bucky rolled his eyes, adding the winnings to his growing pile. “How would I do that?” he asked, holding up his one hand. “I can’t even hold my cards at the same time as playing.”

Clint was dealing the next hand, wearing the best poker face Bucky had ever seen. He tried not to look at him too obviously as he picked up his hand and saw another run of high cards. “Hearts are trumps,” he said, as lightly as possible, setting his cards facedown on the table and pulling out the one he wanted to play first..

Stark groaned. “Definitely cheating,” he muttered.

“Are you really accusing the one-armed man of hiding aces up his sleeve?” asked Miss Romanov lightly, dropping a card down on Bucky’s. 

“He’s doing something,” said Stark, throwing a card down with disgust. “He’s going to clean me out at this rate.”

“Tony, you’re the richest man in England,” said Steve, as he played his card.

“Not for much longer,” said Stark. “Give it another round or two, and that’ll be Barnes.”

“You usually count cards,” Bucky pointed out as Clint and Wilson dropped their cards down, and he reached out to gather the trick to himself. “You can’t deny it. You’re just frustrated that you’re not winning, for once.”

Stark let out a sigh. “I’ve told you, I can’t _help_ counting cards,” he said. “It’s just how my brain works.”

“And Bucky apparently can’t help being lucky tonight,” said Clint, losing his carefully schooled expression for a moment to send Bucky a tiny, mischievous smile that Bucky wanted to have painted so that he could keep a copy with him wherever he went.

“Must be being married,” said Wilson as Bucky played the first card for the next trick. “Certainly it seems to have convinced you to wash your hair more often.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at him, because complaints about the greasiness of his hair were old now. “Maybe you should try getting married and sort out your own appearance, then. That’s the same cravat you wore last time you were here.”

There was an awkward hesitation as Wilson’s eyes flicked towards Steve and then away so quickly that Bucky would have missed it if he’d blinked.

“I like this cravat,” said Sam. “And some marriages take a little longer to arrange than yours did.”

He said it in a warm, joking tone, but Clint must have missed that, because his shoulders went stiff and he hunched over slightly. Bucky clenched his jaw and glared at Wilson. This evening was meant to be about making Clint feel easy and relaxed with his friends, not making him feel bad about the circumstances of their marriage.

Wilson gave a slight grimace that meant he’d seen the reaction, but it was Miss Romanov who pulled it back.

“The story I heard is that it took seven years for Lieutenant Barnes to manage to arrange the marriage,” she said, lightly. “That doesn’t seem particularly fast.”

Bucky gathered the cards towards himself as he won another trick. “I was a little distracted by the war.”

“That just sounds like an excuse to me,” muttered Stark, who was still glaring at the cards. Bucky threw the ace of hearts down and gave him a smug smile as he groaned. “Just take all my money, see if I care, I’ll just go off and live in a cave,” Stark added, speaking fast and low. “I’ll live off bugs and make friends with the bats.”

Bucky glanced at Clint to see the tiny frown that meant he hadn’t caught that, and had to resist the urge to kick Stark under the table. Coulson was stationed unobtrusively in the corner in case Clint needed any help, but so far Clint hadn’t so much as looked at him, let alone asked for a sign translation, even though Bucky knew that wasn’t the first thing he hadn’t heard.

He remembered the first time he had gone to a dinner party after he’d returned from Spain, and how it had felt to be served a meal and have to face either asking a footman to cut it up for him, while all those around the table stared at him, or only being able to eat the parts that could be managed with a fork alone.

Steve had been sitting beside him and he’d just cut the food on his own plate into bite-size pieces, then swapped their plates over. Bucky still wasn’t sure what he’d have done if he’d been there alone.

“Clint,” he said, as clearly as possible, “when I’ve won Stark’s entire fortune and he’s gone to live in a cave, do you want to move to his house or stay here?”

Clint took a moment to consider the matter as the last trick played itself out, falling to Bucky again. “I rather like it at Brooklyn,” he said, and Bucky couldn’t hold in a grin.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to rent Stark Towers out,” he said. “I think there are some travellers staying by the river who might be able to make use of it.” He pulled in the last trick, then made a show of counting how many he had. “Can anyone beat seven?”

“You know we can’t,” said Miss Romanov, and she sounded like she was holding in a laugh. 

Stark groaned as Bucky gathered the counters in towards himself, and Clint reached out for the cards, shuffling them together in a way that looked completely innocent, but which Bucky knew concealed a lot.

“Another hand?” he asked, and he didn’t quite manage to hit the right note of innocence.

Stark blinked at him, then threw an accusing look at Bucky. “You’ve been using your husband to bamboozle me! Barnes, you fiend, you married a cardsharp!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Bucky, grinning at him with all the smug satisfaction he was feeling right then. He stroked his fingers through the pile of betting counters. “Another hand, or do you want to settle up?”

“I think I’ll leave it there,” said Wilson. “Time to head home.”

They settled up their debts, which largely involved the others handing money over to Bucky as Clint grinned at him.

“What shall we spend it all on?” Bucky asked him. “No, let me guess what you’re about to say: arrows.”

Clint’s grin widened. “It seems like you already know the way to my heart.”

God, Bucky wished.

When Wilson stood up to leave, Steve got up as well. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, which made Stark roll his eyes.

As they left, Miss Romanov raised her hands and signed something at Clint without translating out loud. Her hands moved easily and fluidly, as if she’d been signing her whole life instead of only having learnt in the last few years. Bucky watched her with suppressed jealousy that surged into a hot feeling in his throat when Clint started laughing at whatever she’d said.

He wanted to be the one making Clint laugh.

“Well, that’s rude,” said Stark, leaning back in his chair in a way that used to make Bucky’s mother hiss at him about destroying the furniture. “Hey, Barnes, I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at him in query. “Nope, not you, Barnes, you’re old hat now, I mean the shiny new Barnes.”

Stark looked at Clint, who gave him a worried look that was probably completely justified. “What do you want to talk about?”

“So, you may have noticed that you didn’t get a wedding present from me,” said Stark.

Bucky frowned. “You gave us the silver candlesticks.”

Stark waved that away. “Potts picked those out, I mean you didn’t get a _proper_ present. I meant to talk to you about it at the wedding, but there was a lot happening and, fine, I forgot. So we’re going to talk about it now, New Barnes.”

“You want to give _me_ a present?” asked Clint. “You barely know me. Bucky’s your friend.”

Stark waved that away. “Old Barnes is only barely my friend. You know he killed my parents, right?”

Bucky groaned and pressed his hand over his forehead. “Will you let that go already?”

“What?” asked Clint. “You...what? I thought they died in a carriage accident?”

“Yep,” said Stark, “That’s true. A carriage accident that happened right after Bucky jinxed them.”

“It was months afterwards,” said Bucky, tiredly, because he got that Stark dealt with his grief by making stupid jokes, but he was still very ready to never hear this one again. “And completely unrelated.”

“You would say that,” said Stark. “Don’t forget you also caused the war.”

Bucky groaned louder.

“I don’t get it,” said Clint.

Bucky sighed and gestured at Stark. “Go on, then. Let it out.”

“In the winter of our last year at school,” said Stark, in the expansive way that meant he was going to turn this into a saga, “a few of our school fellows came to stay here for a few days before we returned for the final term, and we were all sitting around like this, perhaps a little drunk-”

“A lot more than that, from the way I heard it,” said Miss Romanov.

Stark glared at her for the interruption. “Fine, a lot drunk. It was Barnes, Rogers, Bruce Banner who has sailed off to the New World and may never be seen again, and Prince Thor. It was largely his fault we were drunk, you should never drink with Norwegian royalty, they’ll put you under the table.”

“Noted,” said Clint, sounding dazed.

Stark turned to jab a finger at Bucky, who just glared at him, waiting for this whole thing to be over. “We were talking about how we were going to all go off travelling the Continent together. See the sights, use all that expensive education we’d had to order drinks in a variety of different European languages, get into some minor scandals that would have to be hushed up once we got home-”

“You were the only one planning that,” put in Bucky.

Stark ignored him. “And then this man, this fellow right here-” He jabbed his finger at Bucky again, “-said, and I quote, _the only thing that’s going to stop us is if there’s a war, or one of us ends up inheriting earlier than expected._ ” Stark threw his hands wide, palms up. “And then both happened! He as good as cursed my parents! Might as well have just murdered them with his own hands!”

Bucky sighed, because he’d heard this too many times before to take any of it seriously.

“And caused a major continental conflict,” said Clint, eyeing Bucky. “Who knew he had it in him?”

“Oh god, is Tony talking about the ‘curse’ again?” asked Steve, coming back in.

“I thought we were talking about wedding presents,” said Miss Romanov. “We seem to have got sidetracked.”

“Oh, yes,” said Stark, snapping his fingers at Clint. “Archer. I’m going to build you a fancy bow. I need to see you shoot.”

Clint stared at him. “What?” he managed.

“Stark likes to build weaponry,” said Bucky.

Clint turned to stare at him instead of Stark. “You said his inventions tended to blow up.”

“Oh, wow, slander!” said Stark. “That only happened with - ... and, yes, also the - … and maybe a little the - You know what, not the point, it’s still a cruel thing to say about one of your oldest friends.”

“You just said you were barely friends,” said Miss Romanov.

Stark let out a put-upon noise. “AT ANY RATE,” he said loudly, looking back at Clint. “I can’t actually see any way for me to make a bow that blows up, so you needn’t worry.” He paused and frowned for a moment. “Oh wait, no, I can now think of seven, but I promise I won’t be using any of them. I’m just going to make the best bow in the country for the handsome midnight archer who stole our grumpy Lieutenant’s heart, which means I need to watch you shoot so I can tailor it exactly for you.”

“Oh,” said Clint, sounding a bit lost for words, which was a fairly common reaction to Stark. “Right now?” he managed.

“No, no, tomorrow before I leave,” said Stark. He glanced at the clock. “It feels like now is the time for all good girls and boys to go to bed.”

“I think that was about an hour ago, actually,” said Miss Romanov. “It’s a good thing none of us are good.”

“Except Steve,” put in Bucky, and she nodded in acknowledgement.

“Oh yes, except Captain Rogers.”

Steve just sighed.

****

Their guests all headed off to their rooms in the other wing, and Bucky and Clint walked up to their own rooms together. Bucky did his best not to thrill with excitement at having a husband he could retire with now, even if they would be parting ways at their bedroom doors.

“How did you find the evening?” he asked, and then, because it probably always needed saying, “I’m sorry about Stark.”

Clint laughed. “He was fine."

Bucky shook his head. “He talks too fast for me sometimes, I can’t imagine that was easy for you.”

Clint hesitated, and for a moment Bucky thought he was going to play it off, then he nodded. “Yes, true,” he agreed. “But Natasha knows so much more sign than I would have thought, and they’re all nice people. I enjoyed meeting them.”

“Good,” said Bucky as they got to the doors to their rooms, pausing to hesitate by the little table between them. He’d had Mrs Wilkins put a small vase of purple flowers on it when he’d realised it was the place he parted from Clint every night. “So you’re happy to do this again sometime?"

“Of course,” said Clint, then he must have seen something of Bucky’s nerves on his face, because he managed a smile and added, “I like your friends, Bucky. I’d like them to be my friends too.”

Bucky smiled wider at him, feeling the effervescent fizz of glee that Clint always managed to set off in him rise up through his chest. “Good,” he said, then added in the one-handed sign he and Clint had worked out a few days ago, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Clint signed back, then added, “I hope you sleep well.” 

“You too,” signed Bucky, then watched as Clint went inside his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, before he turned to go into his own room.

Everything seemed to be going so well. Bucky couldn’t help thinking it was all about to fall apart, while desperately hoping it never would, that he’d get to keep this growing ease with Clint and maybe even get to turn it into something more.


	2. Chapter 2

After breakfast the next morning, Stark and Clint disappeared off to the range so Stark could work out how to build Clint a bow. Bucky took Steve off on a ride so that he’d finally give Justice the time and attention that he deserved.

“Are you going back to Stark’s?” asked Bucky, once they’d galloped out the first rush of the morning and slowed to a walk down through the woods.

“No, Sam asked if I wanted to stay at his for a week or two,” said Steve, then sent a smirk at Bucky. “Or I might just come back here, and-”

“No,” said Bucky immediately, because he knew Steve was joking with him but he needed to make it very clear that he wasn’t ready to have someone intruding on his time with Clint just yet. “Go to Wilson’s, and take Justice with you. He doesn’t deserve to be cooped up in the stable with only grooms exercising him.”

Steve patted Justice’s neck. “I know,” he said. “I will.” He cleared his throat. “I noticed Clint doesn’t seem to have a horse.”

“Not yet,” said Bucky. “Morita is looking out for one for him.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Did Clint get a say in that, or…?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “He needs a horse, Steve,” he said. “It’s ridiculous he didn't have one at his father’s.”

“Of course,” agreed Steve, all too easily. “Let me guess, the first place you’re taking him when he gets one is the boathouse by the river?”

The river was Bucky’s favourite place on the estate but it was enough of a distance from the house to be impractical to walk to. He and Steve had gone there every day they could get away when they were young, once Bucky had talked his father into getting a horse for Steve so they could go together. 

Back then, they’d taken the chance to swim where no one could see them, played around in the old rowing boat that was kept in the boathouse there, and had come very close to drowning each other on multiple occasions. Now, all Bucky wanted was to take a picnic and settle with Clint on the grass without any servants around, somewhere they could just be themselves. 

“I don’t know, maybe,” he said, trying to sound as casual about the idea as possible. Steve just laughed at him, so Bucky kicked Alpine into a faster pace and left him behind, trying not to think about the way Clint relaxed when he didn’t have to worry about the servants or anyone else judging him, or what that might look like in the sunshine with the babbling sound of flowing water in the background.

He eventually let Steve catch him up, glaring at him any time it looked like he was going to say anything else about Clint, and they headed back towards the stables.

“Look,” said Steve, as they came around the bend of the drive, “your husband appears to be part monkey.”

Far across the sweep of the lawn, the tiny figure of Clint was halfway up a tree, standing on a branch and looking down at Miss Romanov, who had her hands on her hips and an air of judgement in every line of her body.

Even from a distance, Bucky could see the happy look on Clint’s face and he couldn’t hold in a smile. He was definitely settling in here if he were comfortable climbing trees.

“You’re just sore because that’s the tree you broke your arm falling out of when we were boys,” Bucky said, not taking his eyes off Clint.

Clint made a beckoning gesture at Miss Romanov, who signed something sharply back, then apparently gave in, because she glanced around the area, then tucked her skirt up, tying it with a knot, and started to climb up towards Clint. The loud ring of Clint’s laughter echoed across the lawn and a shaft of white-hot jealousy burnt through Bucky before he could restrain it. He sternly reminded himself that as long as Clint was happy, it didn’t matter if it was because he was with Bucky, or because of someone else.

God, he wanted to be climbing that tree with Clint, though. He pulled Alpine around towards the stables and tried not to think about how impossible that would be without his left arm.

“I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t startled me,” muttered Steve, which Bucky ignored, because Steve had been claiming that ever since the accident had happened, and he wouldn’t have fallen if he’d been holding on properly, no matter what Bucky had done.

****

As much as Bucky liked seeing Steve and the others, it was a relief once they’d all left. Stark and Miss Romanov shared a carriage back to their homes and Steve rode Justice over to Wilson’s house, and then it was just him and Clint again. They stood in the hall after Steve had left while Bucky tried to think of something to suggest they did together, so that Clint didn’t slip away to occupy himself.

Before he had a chance to, Clint gave him a careful look and said, “You have a beautiful billiards table.”

“ _We_ have a beautiful billiards table,” Bucky corrected automatically.

Clint’s smile took over his face for a second before he hesitated, glancing at the stump of Bucky’s arm. “Are you still able to use it?” He winced. “Or we could play cards, instead,” he said in a rush. “Or anything, really, I could go and work on my arrows if you want some time to do - uh, paperwork.”

He wanted to spend time with Bucky, just the two of them. Bucky felt a grin take over his face. “Stark made me a prosthetic for billiards, as well as the one for riding,” he said, and turned to lead the way to the billiards room. “I haven’t had much of a chance to use it, so you’ll have to bear with me while I work it out.”

He had deliberately avoided billiards since he’d come home. It had been one of the things he'd been best at before the war and he wasn’t interested in finding out just how much of that El Casco and his bandits had taken from him, but if Clint wanted to play, well. Bucky probably should try and reclaim these things for himself anyway.

Clint turned out to be unnervingly good at billiards, which Bucky probably shouldn’t have been surprised at; he was turning out to be good at quite a number of things.

“I just have good aim,” Clint said, after clearing the table again.

Stark’s prosthetic actually worked better than Bucky had thought it would, and once he’d got the hang of it he was almost up to his old standards. Almost.

“We need to do this a lot more often so I can start beating you,” he said, after missing a shot by a tiny, but crucial, distance. He pressed at the join of the prosthetic and his arm, moving them better into alignment.

“Of course,” said Clint, with a devilishly carefree smile, shooting the white at the black and potting it without even appearing to aim. “If you think you can.”

“We’ve got the rest of our lives together,” Bucky pointed out, then glanced up at the clock to hide the instinctive gleeful smile that thought prompted. Given how long it would take them to dress for dinner, that would have to be the last game. “I’m sure I can beat you at least once in that time.”

“Just the once in our entire lives?” asked Clint. “That’s the total of your ambition?”

Bucky shrugged as he set his cue back in the rack. “I don’t mind it when you win,” he said. “Your smile is more than worth the loss.”

Clint flushed pink and looked down, just as he did every time Bucky let slip one of the many compliments he wanted to shower him with. “It’s nearly time for dinner, I have to go dress,” he muttered, and disappeared.

Bucky watched him go, wondering how many compliments it would take for him to stop running from them, then headed upstairs himself.

****

Clint came to the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks with a resolute set to his shoulders, and the smile he gave Bucky was more determined than happy. Bucky just poured him some lemonade and tried to keep things light, because he hated that Clint obviously thought he had something to prove to him.

“I wanted to apologise,” said Clint, grip tightening on his glass as he settled into a chair. “I shouldn’t have left so abruptly earlier. It was rude.”

Bucky had forced himself to lounge in his own chair once he’d seen how tense Clint was, trying to convey just how relaxed he should be. It didn’t come easily to him, but the more he consciously loosened his muscles, the more natural it felt. He wondered how long it would take before he was able to do it automatically, collapsing into furniture the way Stark did, as if he didn’t have a care in the world and definitely no dark memories that kept him awake at night.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You were right, it was time to dress.”

Clint shook his head. “I should have checked you were fine taking that prosthetic off by yourself.”

A thrill of affection ran through Bucky at the sign that Clint had been thinking about his comfort. “It was fine,” he said. “That’s why I employ Falsworth.”

“Still,” said Clint, and shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

There was a glint of steel in his eye that made Bucky think there was no point in continuing to protest, so he just nodded his acceptance and said, “As long as you’re not sorry for being so much better at billiards.”

“Oh no,” said Clint, and the taut smile he’d had since he came in relaxed into the real version, the one that made Bucky want to wrap his heart up with a ribbon and just hand it over to him. “I’d never apologise for being the best.” 

God, he was so beautiful when he was confident.

Clint must have caught something of Bucky’s thoughts from his face, because he flushed and his eyes flicked down to the carpet. Bucky steeled himself against Clint running off again, but instead resolution set back over Clint’s face, and he looked up again. “You really like my smile?”

“Oh yes,” said Bucky. “It’s perfect.” Clint still didn’t look like he was going to run away, so he let some more of what he was feeling seep out. “I want to get Steve to draw it so I can keep it tucked into the pocket over my heart.”

Clint went a very deep red at that and took a hasty gulp of his drink but he remained in place, and Bucky rewarded him with a smile. He’d get Clint used to being told how wonderful he was, even if it took him another ten years.

“Steve draws?” asked Clint, rather obviously looking for a way out of the moment.

“Yes,” said Bucky. “He’s rather good. He drew the picture between our two rooms.”

Clint frowned, clearly trying to recall it. “The horse?”

Bucky nodded. “Queen Mab. She was my favourite.” He hesitated, then added, “I took her to Spain.”

He’d been riding her on the ill-fated mission to speak to El Casco about bringing his bandits into the war as guerilla partisans, the one which had ended with Bucky in captivity for a year and all the men who had been with him dead. Queen Mab had died in the ambush, going down beneath him with a tortured noise he still heard in his nightmares.

Clint fixed him with a steady gaze, looking as though he were reading more from Bucky’s face than Bucky was really comfortable with, then nodded. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

Bucky drew in a breath and let it out. “That was a long time ago now,” he said, and took a sip of his drink. “I think we’re having chicken en croute for dinner,” he said, in an incredibly clumsy attempt to change the subject, but Clint went with it easily enough and they talked of little nothings until Wilkins came to announce the meal was ready.

****

“I think I’ve found a horse for Mr Barnes,” said Morita two mornings later as he helped Bucky up into Alpine’s saddle. “Luke Cage has a mare he’s just finishing breaking in. He said she’s steady, so good for someone without a lot of experience, but loves a fast pace and a bit of excitement as well.”

Bucky got settled into the saddle, holding the prosthetic out so Morita could thread the reins through it for him. “I don’t know how Clint feels about a fast pace.”

Morita rolled his eyes. “He climbs trees when he thinks no one is watching. He spends all his time shooting arrows, sometimes whilst doing somersaults. I think he’d be all up for a fast pace, once he’s settled.”

He made a good point but that didn’t stop Bucky from eyeing him carefully. “You’ve not been gossiping about my husband with the other servants, have you?”

“Of course not,” said Morita. “I’ve just got eyes.” He gave Alpine a final stroke down his flank, then stopped back. “We all do,” he added, with a cheerful grin, “and we all like him a lot. I hear you do too, all smiles and laughter over dinner.”

“You’d have to have been talking about him with the others to know that,” Bucky pointed out, feeling Alpine shift restlessly under him, expecting to be off and clearly wondering why they were hovering.

“No, Falsworth told me. It’s not gossip when it’s your men making sure you’re well,” said Morita. “Not like we talk about him with any of the uptight brigade.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh. Not long after he’d come back from Spain, he’d taken on a handful of the men from his unit as servants, the ones who had gone with Steve to rescue him even though they’d known how likely it was to end with them all dead. The war had been over by then and the Army disbanding, and he’d decided it was the least he could do to make sure they all had good positions after they weren’t needed to fight Napoleon any more. 

It didn’t hurt that they were also the only people who really understood what he’d gone through, and why it had taken him so long to recover. Having Falsworth as his valet had been the key in making Bucky feel secure enough to go to stay at other houses and so get back into society, both because it meant he had a trained soldier to back him up if he needed it, and also because he acted as a calm presence who knew how to talk Bucky through his attacks.

What Bucky hadn’t really factored for was that the existing servants at Brooklyn weren’t at all prepared to have a tight-knit group of rough-and-ready ex-riflemen join them in the servants’ hall, or that the riflemen wouldn’t put that much effort into getting along with what they saw as a group of overly-starched civilians who’d never know Bucky the way they did, regardless of whether or not they’d been there when he’d been growing up.

Bucky had been hoping that enough time would settle the underlying tensions and smooth things over, but that hadn’t happened yet. He was beginning to worry he’d need to actually do something about it, although god knew what.

“I’ve set up an appointment to see the mare this afternoon,” said Morita. “Are you going to want to come?”

“Of course,” said Bucky. “I’ll ask Clint if he wants to as well.”

Morita nodded. “If he does, might be an idea to bring Kate,” he said. “She’s got a good pair of eyes when it comes to horses and she’s been helping Mr Barnes out, so she’ll be better suited to knowing what kind of horse would fit him.”

Something uncomfortable squirmed in Bucky’s stomach. “Kate has?” he said, with a sharper edge than he’d meant, then he forced himself to take a deep breath. “That’s good.”

“Seems she’s had some experience with a bow,” added Morita, giving Bucky a knowing look.

Bucky forced himself to just nod. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll see you later.” He barely needed to nudge Alpine forward at all before he took off, impatient from having been made to stand still when he knew they should be galloping.

Archery. The one thing Clint loved more than anything else, and one of the many things that Bucky’s missing arm meant he’d never be able to join him at. But apparently the stablegirl could.

Bucky took a deep breath and forced away the initial reaction of wild jealousy. This was a good thing. Clint should be making friends and having people that he could share his interests with.

Bucky told himself that he was happy for him and nudged Alpine to a faster pace, until all his concentration was on moving with him as the wind whipped through his hair. This was precisely why he loved riding so much, because it just blew everything else away until there was just you and your horse, and a clean slate in your mind.

****

Bucky told Clint about the horse at lunch. He had intended to stop at the range on his way back to the stables but when he and Alpine had emerged from the woods, he'd seen Kate was with Clint. She'd tossed something high into the air that Clint had skewered with an arrow with smooth, easy movements that had made Bucky's heart thump in his chest. There had been the faint echo of laughter across the lawn, and he'd been hit by another surge of sick jealousy.

He'd decided to leave them to it, rather than interrupt and be confronted by their camaraderie at close range where he’d find it harder to hide his reactions, and so spoil the mood. It wasn’t Clint’s fault that Bucky wanted to be the one making him laugh, after all.

By the time lunch was served Bucky had had a bath and a change of clothes, and he was feeling a lot more in control of his emotions.

“Morita has found a horse he thinks we should look at for you,” he said to Clint as the footmen left the room.

Clint glanced up from his plate. “Ah, that sounds good,” he said, and if Bucky hadn’t devoted so much time to learning all the tiny movements of his face, he might have been convinced that he had heard what Bucky had said.

Clint’s ears must be having one of their bad days he thought, with some frustration that he couldn’t just break into sign language and allow them the time off. Instead, he raised his voice and said, as clearly as he could, “Morita said it’s a mare that he’s sure will be well suited to you,” and the minute trace of confusion cleared off Clint’s face. “We can go and look at her this afternoon, if you want.”

Clint hesitated. “I don’t really know what to look for in a horse,” he said carefully, as if he thought Bucky were going to judge him for it.

Bucky shrugged. “I do. And Morita and Kate will be coming as well. You just need to decide if you can get along with her.”

“Right,” said Clint, nodding while staring down at his plate. 

Whilst Bucky was still casting around for a way to reassure him, a footman came in with the day’s mail on a tray. Clint glanced away out the window to hide his face so Bucky took the post and gave the footman a quick nod of dismissal.

“Three for you today,” he said, sorting through the envelopes and then dropping Clint’s by his plate.

Clint’s head snapped around. “Sorry?”

“Three letters for you,” repeated Bucky, nodding at the little pile.

Clint stared at them. “Are you sure they’re all for me?” he asked, picking them up.

“Unless they’re from people who don’t know my title, and who write so badly as to turn a J into a C,” said Bucky, starting to examine his own letters. He thought Clint could do without being watched just then.

Most of them were business letters from the Barnes’ company office in London, but there was also a small square parcel that made him smile, because there was only one thing it could be.

Clint sorted through his letters. “My mother,” he said quietly, setting one aside, then frowned at the next and tore it open. The frown cleared and he smiled. “Natasha,” he said, skimming over it. “She says she’s attempting to make up for all the letters that went astray when I was at my father’s.” He put it down and picked up the last one with a frown. “I can’t think of anyone else who would write to me,” he said, tearing it open. “Oh.” His eyes flickered down the page. “It’s from Barney, why would he-?” He paused as he started to read the letter properly.

The footman had already cut the string so Bucky could get into the parcel one-handed without difficulty. He pulled aside the paper as quickly as he could, and smiled down at the small stack of new books, stroking his hand over the cover page of one. The latest by Jane Austen, as well as Goethe’s _Zur Farbenlehre_ which Stark had assured him was worth dusting off his rusty German to read.

Clint let out a snort and Bucky looked up from his contemplation of his new books. “Of course,” he said tiredly, chucking the letter down. “He wants money. I should have expected that.” He let out a cynical chuckle. “Not sure why he thinks I’ve got any.”

Bucky took a moment to see if he was joking, but there was nothing on his face to imply he was. “Clint,” he said carefully. “You own half of this estate, half of the house in London, half of my company, and everything else I own. You are one of the richest men in England.”

“No, I-” started Clint, then he stopped as realisation of what a marriage meant apparently dawned. “Oh. I suppose so, but that doesn’t mean I should be throwing money around.”

Bucky shrugged his shoulder. “If you managed to spend enough to put us in jeopardy of bankruptcy, I would be impressed,” he said. “If you want to send your brother some money, though, it can easily be arranged.” He looked at the surprise on Clint’s face and wondered how he could finally get him to believe just how much he now owned, and how happy Bucky was to let him do whatever he wished with it. “One day when it’s raining so badly that even you don’t want to go outside to your range, we’ll have to spend a few boring hours in my study while I talk you through all our properties and interests.”

Clint blinked. “That does sound boring,” he agreed, then cleared his throat. “Probably a good idea, though.” He looked back down at the letter. “If I give Barney money now, he’ll never stop asking.”

“We have enough for that,” said Bucky. “It’s up to you though. If you want to tell him that your husband is a miser with a tight grip on the purse strings, I’ll back you up if it ever comes to it.”

Clint considered that, then folded the letter back up. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “If I don’t help him, he’ll have to go home for a bit, which would be good for my mother, but…” He trailed off without finishing the thought, but Bucky didn’t need him to. It was clear that Clint cared enough for his brother not to want him to have to spend time in the same house as their father.

“It’s your decision,” was all Bucky said, letting the matter go.

****

Clint continued to be quiet as they headed out with Morita and Kate to visit Luke Cage’s stables and see the mare. While Morita was looking her over, he just stood back, looking apprehensive. Bucky distracted the attention of Cage by asking him a hundred questions that he didn’t particularly need the answers to, keeping Cage’s attention turned so that he wouldn’t see just how hesitant Clint was at approaching the horse, gently patting her neck and then glancing at Kate as if looking for advice.

Bucky reminded himself that it was a good thing for Clint to have servants he trusted as Kate stepped up next to Clint, saying something and then encouraging him to stroke the horse’s nose.

When it looked like Clint was more comfortable with the horse, and well on his way to making friends, Bucky ended his conversation with Cage and drifted back over.

“How do you like her?” he asked.

Clint grinned at him, then patted at the horse again, so much more relaxed with her than he had been a few minutes ago. “She’s lovely.”

Bucky cast an eye over her, noting her lines, then glanced at Morita, who nodded at him. “I think we’ll have to call her Arrow,” he said, stroking his hand down the splash of white on her forehead, shaped something like an arrow if you squinted and didn’t care too much about accuracy.

Clint snorted. “Sure, fine,” he said. “Seems a bit obvious, though.”

“Nothing wrong with obvious,” said Bucky, grinning at him until he smiled back, and letting himself feel a flush of success that he’d made Clint happy.

He’d give Clint a week to get used to Arrow, then he’d take him out to the river with a picnic, and work on getting some more smiles out of him.

****

The morning that was set for their picnic, Bucky woke up in the pre-dawn hours from a nightmare bad enough that he couldn’t bring himself to go back to sleep. El Casco had been towering over him, candle-light flashing off his blade as he sliced into Bucky’s arm, laughing softly to himself as Bucky screamed and screamed and screamed.

Bucky had experienced enough of those nightmares over the years to have worked out a routine for them. He lay still, catching his breath and forcing himself to feel the softness of the sheets, and how completely opposed it was to the rough stone of the cellar he’d been kept in, until he had pushed the memories away. He then got out of bed and headed for the window, where the curtains were already open. He found it much easier to sleep when he could see the night sky from his bed. He threw open the window so that when he collapsed into the window seat, he could stick his head halfway out into the night air and look up at the stars overhead. There was a sliver of a moon sinking down below the horizon and the first faint gleam of dawn creeping up from the east.

He hadn’t been able to see the sky for the entire year he’d been held captive. El Casco had kept him in the dank, windowless hole of a cellar under his base, only visiting him when he wanted to cause more pain. Bucky had barely even seen light for most of his time down there. When Steve had rescued him, he’d had to tie a cloth around Bucky’s eyes so that the sun didn’t hurt them.

_I’m not there any more,_ he reminded himself, staring at the stars. _I’m home, I’m at Brooklyn. And I’m married to Clint Barton. We’re going to the river today._

That seemed almost too much to believe and he caught himself wondering if he wasn’t still there, and this was all just some hallucination caused by his torture. 

No, if he were daydreaming a perfect life, Clint would be in his bed, not in the next room behind a locked door, and Bucky would still have both arms to wrap around him. He pressed the heel of his hand into his left shoulder where it ached still from the dream. He could already tell that he was going to be in pain most of the day, a phantom pain from an arm that didn’t exist any more and that no doctor had ever been able to cure.

_You’re going to the river with Clint,_ he reminded himself. No matter how much pain he was in, he wasn’t going to miss out on this today. He was going to sit by the river in the sun with his husband, and nothing, not the pain of his missing arm, not the memories of Spain, was going to stop him.

He stayed at the window, watching the sun come up, until Falsworth came in to ready him for the day.

“Bad night, sir?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. He’d found Bucky in the same position on too many mornings.

“Could have been better,” said Bucky, pulling away from the window and standing up. “The blue riding jacket today, I think.”

“Of course,” said Falsworth, not even attempting to hide his amusement. “And the breeches with the gold stripe?”

The ones that showed Bucky’s attributes to their best advantage. “Yes, those will do,” he said and went to wash, ignoring Falsworth’s unsubtle snigger.

****

His missing arm was still causing him pain at breakfast, enough that Bucky wasn’t able to conceal it from Clint’s sharp gaze.

Clint didn’t mention it though, he just carefully asked, “Do you want to put this trip off?” as he poured his third cup of coffee. “We could go tomorrow.” He looked out of the window. “The weather seems unsettled, anyway.”

Bucky shook his head firmly. “The kitchen have already prepared a packed lunch for us,” he pointed out, and didn’t add that he didn’t want to put off spending a whole day with Clint for a moment longer. No business letters, no servants, no range: no distractions at all, just the two of them together, just as Bucky had wanted ever since he’d seen Clint shooting in the dark.

There was movement in Bucky's peripheral vision and he startled, whirling around to see a footman coming in, who actually stopped short at the look on Bucky's face. 

Damnit. He took a deep breath and managed a nod at the poor man before turning back to his own coffee.

_There's no danger here,_ he reminded himself.

"I'm sure they could repack it for tomorrow," said Clint, giving Bucky a worried look like the ones he'd got so sick of from Steve.

"I'm fine," he snapped, "and we're going."

He realised his mistake a second too late, after Clint had flinched back and hunched over, his whole demeanour obviously waiting for a blow.

Bucky set his fork down, leaning back away from Clint, and trying to look non-threatening. “I’m sorry,” he said, miserably. He wanted so much for this day to be perfect, but already he was ruining it, before they’d even left the house. “I’m sorry, Clint.”

“It’s fine,” said Clint, although it clearly wasn’t. He was eyeing Bucky with a wary look that didn’t fade as he carefully sat back forward. “I was being annoying.”

Damn it, that was the last thing Bucky wanted him to think. “You weren’t,” he said, already knowing there was no way Clint would believe him. “You’re never annoying. I just didn’t sleep well, and it’s making me jumpy.” Clint nodded, picking up his cutlery and clinging to it with a too-tight grip. Bucky gave up on his last shred of self-respect and added, “My arm is hurting me, and it’s making me short-tempered, but I never want to take that out on you. I’ll do better, I promise.”

Clint ignored most of that, his eyes darting to the empty place where Bucky’s arm had been, and he felt self-consciousness crawl over him. He wanted to be whole and perfect for Clint, but everything seemed geared towards revealing his inadequacies.

“Sometimes it hurts even though it’s gone,” he said.

Clint flicked his gaze back up to Bucky’s face. “What helps?” he asked, and Bucky felt a surge of love that threatened to stop his heart in his chest. 

He cleared his throat to cover it, then shrugged. “Nothing, really,” he said. “You can’t stop pain that shouldn’t exist. But I’ll feel better once we’re outside and riding. Having that freedom always makes me feel better.”

Clint nodded, reaching for his coffee mug and draining it. “Then we’ll go sooner rather than later,” he said, and stood up. “I need my riding boots.”

He left, and Bucky couldn’t help wondering how much of his haste was the desire to help the man who had just shouted at him over nothing, and how much was the desperate urge to get away from him.

Bucky took a deep breath and did his best to push the dark feeling dragging at his mind away. He wasn’t going to let this day be ruined. He’d make the poor start of it up to Clint, and he’d still get the perfect moment he’d always dreamed of, sitting next to his husband by the river. 

He finished the last of his own coffee, then went to follow Clint upstairs to get his jacket and riding prosthetic.

****

Bucky was right about feeling better once he was outdoors. The moment he was up on Alpine’s back, calm settled through him, and it only got better when Clint swung himself up onto Arrow, then leaned forward to pet her neck.

“Are you ready?” Bucky asked, once Morita had set up his prosthetic on the reins.

Clint flashed him a wild grin that Bucky wanted to kiss off his lips. “Definitely,” he said, then nudged Arrow forward into a gallop, heading off down the track with more skill than Bucky had been expecting. God, he was almost as beautiful on a horse as he was at the range.

Bucky immediately set Alpine after him but Clint had a head start and the advantage of Bucky’s distraction, and it took until they were half a mile down the track before Bucky was able to draw level with him.

“You said you weren’t very good at riding,” he said, once they’d slowed the horses enough to speak.

Clint gave him an unrepentant shrug. “Kate’s been giving me lessons,” he said.”I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of you. Well, not because of that anyway, I’m sure I’ll manage to look like an idiot at some point.”

“I can’t imagine that,” said Bucky, and then added, because he couldn’t stop himself. “If I’d known you wanted lessons, I would have happily given them to you. You didn’t need to ask Kate.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Not much point in taking lessons to not look like an idiot in front of you if you’re the one giving the lessons,” he said. “I was pretty rusty for the first couple. Besides, Kate and I worked out a deal; she wanted archery lessons in exchange.”

Bucky did his best to skip over the fact that Kate was a servant and Clint didn’t have to work out a deal with her in order to get her help, along with the inevitable surge of jealousy that Kate got to share so much of Clint’s time, and made himself focus on the fact that Clint had cared enough about Bucky’s opinion to spend time away from his range on riding lessons.

He didn’t quite manage to suppress it all. “You and Kate are becoming close.”

“I suppose,” said Clint. “She’s easy to spend time with.” He glanced around at the scenery, which hopefully meant he missed the look that put on Bucky’s face for a moment before he could cover it over. “We have a lot in common.”

Bucky supposed that was true. “I take it she’s told you how she came to be at Brooklyn, then.”

“No,” said Clint, looking at him. “She’s Morita’s cousin, isn’t she? I presumed she just needed a place and there was an opening.”

Bucky shook his head. “There wasn’t an opening until Morita asked me to make one,” he said. “He’s not close to that part of his family.” He considered. “Or any part of it, really, but especially Kate’s parents. Her father is a reasonably well-off merchant and they’re not keen on claiming kinship with the family disgrace who ended up in the Army to avoid debtors' prison.”

“Oh,” said Clint, surprised. “I didn’t- should you be telling me this?”

“They’re your employees too,” said Bucky. “You should probably be aware that one of the main reasons I’ve forbidden gambling amongst the servants is Morita.” The other was that there was enough mistrust between the old soldiers and the Barnes family servants without adding in the fuel of Dum Dum winning everyone’s wages off them.

“I see,” said Clint. “How did Kate end up at Brooklyn then?”

“She ran away,” said Bucky. He hesitated before adding the rest, but Clint should probably know, even if it gave him and Kate even more in common. “Her father’s business deals in slaves, which she believes to be deeply immoral.”

“Because it is,” put in Clint, and Bucky nodded at him.

“Precisely,” he said. “He arranged a marriage for her with one of his business associates, one who was responsible for the kidnapping of new slaves before the abolition of that trade. He now lives in Virginia and manages her father’s interests there, running an auction house. She refused to marry him and her father told her she didn’t have a choice and locked her up while the wedding preparations were being made. She escaped out of the window and came here, to the only family member she had who she knew wouldn’t send her right back to him.”

Bucky couldn’t help wondering what Clint would have done if he’d had a family member that he could have escaped to before his wedding. He had a very uncomfortable feeling that he wouldn’t be riding alongside Bucky right now if he had.

“That must have taken a lot of bravery,” said Clint.

“Yes,” agreed Bucky. When Morita had first brought Kate to see him, she hadn’t believed Morita’s assurances that Bucky wouldn’t send her right back to her father. She’d been bristling with anger, already halfway through a rant about freedom and choice before Bucky had been able to get a word in to ask Morita if there was enough room for her in the lodging above the stables, or if Wilkins would need to find a room for her in the servants quarters. She’d been so full of fire and passion, and he’d admired it so much, along with her revulsion at slavery despite having been brought up by a man who believed so completely in it.

She’d said that being married off against her will was as good as sending her into slavery. Bucky had agreed with her, and then he’d gone and trapped Clint into exactly the thing she’d run so far to escape.

No, that was different. Clint had already been in captivity, Bucky had been freeing him.

The clouds were grey overhead as they headed down the path towards the river but it was warm enough to be comfortable and the breeze was soft. Bucky focused on the familiarity of being on Alpine’s back and the thrill of having Clint beside him, and pushed away everything that was still preying on him from his nightmare.

“I decided what to do about Barney,” said Clint, after they’d been riding in silence for a few minutes. “Uh, if it’s alright with you,” he added, glancing sideways at Bucky.

“Whatever you want is fine,” Bucky reminded him. “Are you going to give him the money?”  
Clint let out a long breath. “Yes,” he said, “but I want to tell him that you’ve given me an allowance, a strict one, so I can only send him twenty pounds every quarter. I don’t want him to keep asking and asking.”

Bucky nodded. “That makes sense,” he agreed.

Clint sent him another of those worried sideways looks. “You don’t mind me lying about it? Pretending that you’re setting rules when you haven’t?”

“No,” said Bucky. “Whatever you want to tell him is fine. If you want me to pretend to be the strict, authoritarian type, I can do that. I used to command men, you know.”

Clint laughed. “I’ve seen you with your men,” he pointed out. “You let them get away with all sorts.”

Bucky shrugged, wondering if he should just let that go without responding, but Clint should know just why Bucky was so indebted to Morita and Dum Dum and the others. 

“The men I took on as servants were the ones who saved my life,” he said, then had to draw in a sharp breath to push back the emotions associated with that. 

Clint was staring at him with wide eyes, but Bucky made himself keep looking forward, at the wide, green, English landscape around them, a million miles away from Spain’s dusty hills. 

“I should have died in the hands of the bandits who captured me. Slowly, and painfully, and a long way from home.” His voice was wavering, as he remembered just how utterly defeated he had become by the time El Casco’s men had amputated his arm to save him from an infection that he’d been hoping would kill him and save him from more torture. “Instead, Steve talked a handful of men into going with him on a rescue mission that would have been forbidden if any of his superiors had heard about it, on the word of a drunk beggar who’d told him he’d heard a couple of El Casco’s men talking about the prisoner in his cellar. I owe each and every one of them so much more than letting them say what they like to me.”

Alpine shifted restlessly beneath him and Bucky realised he’d clenched his hand tightly around the reins and was sitting so stiffly in the saddle that it was throwing off Alpine’s gait. He made himself relax.

“I see,” said Clint, quietly. “Then I owe them all too. If you’d died in Spain, I’d still be at home with my father, with no hope of escaping.”

Bucky let out a heavy breath, and then another one. Clint thought of marrying him as escaping, not as being further trapped. Relief rolled through him, pushing aside the stress that the memories of Spain had dredged up. That was all he really wanted, for Clint to be glad he’d married Bucky.

Well, no, if Bucky was allowed to want anything, then he’d want Clint to return at least a fraction of the love Bucky felt for him, but he figured he’d had his miracle that day in Spain, when it was Steve unlocking his prison door instead of El Casco coming to torture him. He’d settle for Clint being happy with their marriage as it was, and wanting to be friends with Bucky.

“There’s the river,” he said, nodding ahead at the glint of sunlight on water. He kicked Alpine to a faster pace, then glanced over his shoulder at Clint. “Come on, I’ll race you down.”

A look of determination filled Clint’s face and he urged Arrow on as well, and the whole, unpleasant conversation got pushed away in the speed and exhilaration of galloping down the grassy slope to the river.

****

An hour later, Bucky was overflowing with satisfaction at having managed to get things exactly as he’d pictured them on the long, dark nights in El Casco’s prison. Clint had had to spread the blanket out for them to sit on because Bucky couldn’t manage it with just one arm, but that had been the only deviation in the way he’d always imagined this would go.

Clint had taken his jacket off as soon as they’d sat down, leaving him in just his shirt sleeves and a tightly fitted waistcoat that made Bucky wanted to run his hand down the lines of his waist. They’d drunk ginger ale and eaten ham and veal pie, boiled eggs and cold chicken, all while Bucky made Clint laugh by telling him tales of when he and Steve used to come here as children, and how very often it had ended with one or both of them soaking wet and covered in mud.

As Bucky dug out the gingerbread cakes, Clint even loosened up enough to share his own story, of him and Barney learning to swim in a pond on the Baron’s estate.

“One of the footmen we had then was a nice man,” he said, “and he rigged us up a rope swing from a tree. We spent the whole summer swinging out and dropping into the water, then swimming around to do it again.”

Bucky gestured over at the tree on the bank next to the old boathouse. “That has a branch that goes right out over the water. We used to try and walk along it as far as we could before falling. I always managed to get further than Steve.”

“Oh, that’s the important thing,” agreed Clint. “Doing it better than each other. Barney was heavier so he was able to swing the rope out further, but I was the first to work out how to do a somersault from it, and that put him in a huff for days, until he worked it out too.”

Bucky pictured Clint - adult Clint - somersaulting from a rope into the water, wearing only bathing clothes, and had to take a deep breath. “Perhaps we should swim after our lunch has digested,” he said, as casually as he could.

Clint glanced up at the sky. “I’m not sure the weather is suited to it,” he said, then frowned. “In fact, we should head back soon, or risk getting wet.”

Bucky looked up as well and realised that while he had been mesmerised by the sunshine of Clint’s smile, the actual sunshine had been completely replaced by dark clouds that were rapidly thickening.

Of course the weather wouldn’t cooperate to let him have this moment.

_There’ll be other times,_ he told himself, and sat upright from the slouch he’d relaxed into, stifling a wince as his shoulder twinged. “You’re right, we should-” 

There was a crack of thunder, and rain started falling.

“Too late!” said Clint, and there was a note of laughter in his voice as he scrambled to his feet and the rain grew heavier, soaking through his shirt.

Bucky got up as fast as he could. “Gather everything up,” he said, throwing things back into the picnic bag. “We’ll hide out in the boathouse.”

There was a flash of lightning and Arrow let out an unsettled whinny, shying a few steps back.

“The horses!” said Bucky, abandoning the picnic food to go to Alpine, who shook his head but let Bucky grab for his reins. “We have to get them inside.”

Clint immediately went for Arrow, but he moved too fast when they didn’t have the trust between them that Bucky and Alpine had. Arrow startled back from Clint, then there was another crack of thunder and she let out a fear-struck neigh and took off.

Clint swore loudly and ran after her, feet slipping on the muddy grass. Bucky hesitated, wondering if he should try and help, then Alpine pulled at the reins and he realised he couldn’t leave him out here to get wet and frightened for any longer than he had to.

The door to the boathouse was high and wide, so it was easy to get Alpine inside and lead him down the side of the dock, far enough in that the sound of rain and thunder was muted, and tie his reins to a ring on the wall.

It was dark in the boathouse, far too dark for Bucky’s tastes. The cold drip of water against stone was too familiar and he had to take a moment to stroke down Alpine’s neck, as much for his own comfort as the horse’s. There hadn’t been any horses in El Casco’s cellar. There had been dripping water, because it had been carved right into the hillside and when it rained water seeped through and down the back wall, and it had been pitch dark unless his tormentors had brought torches down in order to light their way as they sliced him open.

Bucky took a deep breath, and then another, and then gave in to temptation and pressed his face against Alpine’s coat for a moment, breathing in the smell of horse. He was fine. He’d been in this boathouse a hundred times, and never come to any harm.

He pulled away from Alpine and hurried back outside to grab the picnic and blanket, now both thoroughly soaked. Clint was some distance down the bank, still chasing after Arrow, although he looked to be doing slightly better than he had been, moving more slowly towards her as she nervously backed away, and clearly saying something calming.

“Clint!” Bucky called, and then again, louder, but it was clear Clint couldn’t hear a word over the rain, so he gave up and retreated to the boathouse to put the picnic remnants down.

He set them down in the corner furthest from Alpine, which was also the one with the least light, tucked away from the door. He folded the blanket, blinking back the memories that were scratching at his mind, and set it down on the picnic bag.

This was ridiculous. He was not in Spain, he was in no danger, it was just-

There was another crash of thunder, close enough to sound like gunfire, and Bucky jerked, spinning on his heel to get a good view of the rest of the boathouse, in case-

His boot caught on a slippery patch of stone and went out beneath him. He reached out to grab for the wall to save himself from a fall, but he was reaching with his left arm, the arm that wasn’t there any more and was nothing but pain. He crashed down hard onto the ground, jarring his stump, and pain surged through him, blocking out all other thought.

Oh god, it hurt, it hurt so much, it was inflamed and red and they were going to cut it off, El Casco had sent them for knives to cut his arm off. Bucky felt like his chest was going to cave in with how hard it was to breathe as panic set in, and he scooted into the corner, his back pressing up against the wet stone of his prison.

They were coming for him, coming with red hot knives so they could cut him open and tear him apart and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t get away, could do nothing but scream and scream and scream as El Casco laughed. He’d promised that he’d keep Bucky alive as long as he could, for years, trapped here in pain as he slowly took him apart, and now he was taking Bucky’s arm.

There was a movement and in the dim light Bucky saw a tall, dark figure approaching. Panic suffused his whole body as he desperately tried to get away, forcing himself back into the corner. He could hear whimpering, stuttered and breathless, as terror took him over.

“No, no,” he forced out. “Please, don’t. Not my arm, please, I can’t-”

Everything was fading away as his chest crushed tighter with pain, his heart feeling like it was going to thump right out of his chest. Oh god, it hurt, it hurt so much, and he was going to die, he was going to die here, in this cellar surrounded by no one who cared about him, only these laughing men, wielding their sharp knives and-

“Bucky? Bucky, please, it’s alright, we’re both alright,” a voice was saying, far away in the distance. “You’re well, no one’s hurting you, please, just breathe. Just breathe for me.”

He knew that voice. He trusted it. He took in a ragged breath that burnt all down through his chest, then another one.

“Yes, that’s it, just like that,” said the voice. “Just keep breathing, please Bucky. Open your eyes, there’s nothing here to be scared of, just me and the horses.”

Horses. There had never been any horses in his prison in Spain. He took another deep breath, reaching out to clutch at the wet fabric in front of him, and then forced his eyes open.

Clint was staring at him with wide, scared eyes and Bucky immediately felt a hundred times better because _Clint was there_ , which meant that the Spanish bandits weren’t, because he’d got away, he’d got home, and he’d married Clint.

“Oh god,” he gasped. “I’m not there.”

“No, you’re not,” said Clint. “You’re home, in England, in Brooklyn. We’re by the river and the rain is already easing up, and you’re alright. No one is going to hurt you, I promise.”

Bucky‘s breathing was easier now and he concentrated on it, just like he did when Falsworth talked him through it. He’d just had an episode, and everything was fine. In and out, in and out, in and-

Oh god.

Clint had seen. Clint knew exactly how damaged and broken Bucky was now.

“You shouldn’t-” he said, forcing his hand to let go of Clint’s shirt, where it was still knotted. “You don’t need to see this,” he said. “You should go.”

Clint snorted. “Right, I’m just going to walk away when you’re like this,” he said, and rubbed the hand that Bucky was only just realising was on his shoulder down to his arm and back up. “I’m not going anywhere, not until you’re alright.” He paused, and managed a weak smile. “Besides, it’s still raining, and this is the only dry place around here.”

Bucky stared at him and wondered, yet again, how on earth such a man could be real.

“Just keep breathing,” Clint added. “Nice and steady and easy.”

Bucky managed a nod, concentrating on his breathing again and pushing away the horrifying mortification of being seen this way. It would do no good if he let himself get caught up in his emotions again and plunged back down into the attack.

“I’m so sorry,” he managed, a few minutes later.

“Don’t be,” said Clint, as if it were that simple. He squeezed Bucky’s shoulder gently, then finally let go, moving back and dropping down from his crouch to sit on the floor. “As long as you’re better now, that’s all that matters.”

Bucky nodded, slumping back against the wall and pushing his hand to his chest to monitor just how fast his heart was beating. It was starting to slow, and he could feel the shaky jitters that always came at the tail-end of one of his episodes setting in. “I’m fine,” he said, although he wasn't quite yet; it was more that he believed he soon would be.

He blinked his eyes and glanced around the boathouse. Now that his eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, he could see that Arrow was tied up next to Alpine, the rain had lightened to a fine drizzle, and Clint’s shirt was soaked through enough to be translucent and cling to the muscles of his arms in a way that made Bucky worry he was going to stop being able to breathe again.

Good lord, how was that allowed in a civilised country?

“Do you want a drink?” Clint asked, apparently oblivious to Bucky’s inability to look away from his arms. “That might settle you.”

“Ah, yes please,” said Bucky, and then was treated to the sight of Clint turning to reach into the picnic bag to pull out the ginger ale, his upper arms flexing and bending and-

Bucky took a careful breath, all too aware that he’d chosen his tightest breeches this morning and couldn’t let himself dwell on the sight too much.

“Is Arrow doing well?” he asked, hoping to distract himself.

“Oh yes,” said Clint, pulling out the bottle and holding it out to Bucky. “I think she just wanted to lead me on a chase. As soon as I caught her, she was completely fine.”

Or maybe all she had needed to calm down was to have Clint close to her. Bucky could empathise. He took a drink of ginger ale, then another when it settled his stomach and grounded him further in reality. The memory of the cold stone of his prison was fading away, although he knew it wouldn’t be gone for good. It always found some way to creep back in, either in his dreams or in his vulnerable waking moments, like today.

Clint dug through the things Bucky had rescued from the rain until he’d pulled out his jacket, which he pulled on over his wet shirt as if that would keep him warm when he had rain-soaked material pressed to his skin.

“We need to get you home and into dry clothes,” said Bucky, forcing himself to sit up properly, then wincing at the wobbliness of his limbs. “You’ll get ill.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “It takes more than a bit of cold and wet to harm me.” He twisted to look out of the door and Bucky watched the flexibility of his body with an interest he didn’t have the energy to hide just then. “The rain won’t last much longer, we can go then.” He turned back and caught Bucky’s eyes on the stretch of his stomach.

Bucky cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on the ginger ale in his hands as Clint went very still. “Sorry,” he offered.

Clint let out a long breath and settled back in place. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just...I find it surprising that you are interested in looking.”

Bucky couldn’t hold in a laugh. “Are you joking? There’s nothing I’m more interested in looking at.” He winced, because he didn’t ever want Clint to feel unsafe around him. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not- you shouldn’t be worried about me ever doing more than looking, not without you saying anything. You’re just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s hard for me not to stare sometimes.”

Clint’s shoulders had hunched up a bit but he didn’t look scared, just disbelieving. Bucky would fix that, somehow. Clint would realise just how handsome he was, sooner or later.

“I’m starting to believe you might think that,” said Clint, and Bucky beamed at him, because that was a step he could build on. “I’m not entirely sure you don’t have something wrong with your eyes, though.”

Bucky shook his head. “Just my arm,” he said, watching Clint’s shoulders slowly relax and wishing he could help them along by smoothing his hand over them. “And my mind,” he added, because Clint had seen him having one of his attacks now, so there was no hiding that.

“Other than thinking like you do about me, I think your mind is fine,” said Clint. “After being hurt like you were, it makes sense that you’d get a bit wary if you thought it was happening again.”

‘A bit wary’ was such a mild way to describe one of Bucky’s attacks that he had to snort his amusement. He didn’t want to continue this line of conversation any further though, because he didn’t want Clint dwelling on it too much.

He took a deep breath, moving to tuck the ginger ale away in the bags, then made himself stand up, resting his hand on the wall to steady himself. “I’m just going to check on the horses,” he said, and headed over to where he could bury his face in Alpine’s neck and ground himself properly.

The rain tapered off not long after that and the ride back was a bit cold, but not so bad that Bucky felt he had to worry too much about Clint in his damp shirt. As soon as they got back to the stables, he did send Kate into the house to get hot baths poured for them both, though.

“Look what you’ve done to these poor horses,” Morita grumbled, rubbing his hand over Alpine’s damp flank. “I hope you at least had a good time, to make it worth it.”

“Yes, it was lovely,” said Clint, before Bucky could tell Morita to mind his own business. Bucky glanced over to see Clint aiming a quiet smile at him. “I’m looking forward to doing it again when the weather is a little better.”

Bucky smiled back at him, but he couldn’t help thinking that Clint was just being nice. There was nothing particularly lovely about watching your husband fall apart like that and coming face to face with just how broken he was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warning, on top of the things in the tags: violence against dogs, including brief mention of a dead puppy.

Two days later Bucky was in his study, staring at the latest stack of reports from his company and wondering if he could put off reading them for a bit longer when he heard a familiar twang-thwack from the open window.

When the range had been completed, he’d considered moving his desk so he had a better view of it from his study window, but he’d decided it would make Clint feel self-conscious if he found out, so instead he just moved his chair over to the end of the desk whenever he heard the sound of Clint's bow.

When he’d moved far enough to see down to the range though, it wasn’t Clint shooting at the targets, it was Kate. Clint was hovering behind her, watching with a proud smile as she shot, and Bucky felt his stomach turn over before he could restrain his emotions. As he watched, Kate hesitated and Clint stepped forward to adjust her posture, standing close enough that from Bucky’s angle it looked as if his whole body were pressed against hers.

Bucky took a deep breath, and then another when the first didn’t push down enough of the burning jealousy. Of course Clint would rather flirt with the pretty stable girl than the moody ex-soldier that he’d seen come to pieces just because of a storm and the dark.

For a moment he let himself consider sending Kate away. He could get her a position somewhere far away, and even claim it was for her own good, so there wasn’t a hint of the kind of coercion that might set tongues wagging.

Except Kate hadn’t ever struck him as the kind of girl who would let someone coerce her, and Clint was definitely not someone who would put a servant in that position. His first reaction when he’d found out about Tony and his valet, after all, had been concern that Rhodes didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Down below, Clint stepped away from Kate and picked up his own bow. They lined up next to each other, arrows pulled back, then shot in perfect harmony. Kate turned to Clint with a wide grin on her face and Bucky had to let himself accept that any feelings there ran both ways.

He watched for another twenty minutes, listening to the distant strains of laughter and watching as Kate proved herself to be almost as good a shot as Clint. It seemed they had a great deal in common.

Bucky gritted his teeth and then made himself move his chair back so he couldn’t see the range any more. There was no sense in rubbing salt in the wound.

And it wasn't so bad. It wasn’t as if Clint wasn’t still being friendly to Bucky, after all. His smile when he came down for dinner was always the wide, real one, and after dinner they usually sat up for several hours, playing cards or working through more sign language adaptations for Bucky’s one arm, or even just talking easily about the day or the household. Clint was opening up to him and becoming a close friend, just like Bucky had hoped. If that was never going to blossom into love, well, Bucky could hardly blame him. Who would fall in love with someone as broken as he was?

****

Bucky could feel his mood spiralling down into one of his black slumps over the next few days, no matter how he fought against it. Reverend Wilson invited them over for dinner and Steve noticed immediately, making the excuse of showing Bucky Justice’s new quarters to get him alone to ask about it.

“I’m fine,” said Bucky, but he knew he wasn’t convincing anyone. That he could be married to Clint and yet still not have him had always been a possibility, but he’d never properly considered what it would mean for him. 

If Bucky had been better somehow, easier to be around, less prone to sad fits and panic-stricken episodes, _whole_ like he had been before Spain, maybe he could have won Clint over. But now, here, as he was, it seemed even friendship from him was more than he deserved. He should be grateful Clint had given him that much.

“I don’t think you are,” said Steve, eyeing him with a too-knowing look. “Is it Mr Barnes? Has he done something to upset you?”

Bucky shook his head. “He’s fine,” he said, then gave in to the quiet concern radiating from Steve. "Steve, he’s wonderful, he just deserves so much more than me.”

“Absolute rubbish,” said Steve. “Did he say that? I can’t imagine he did.”

“It’s obvious to anyone paying attention,” said Bucky, then turned to pet Justice’s nose, distracting himself before he let the next bitter truth slip out. “I think he’s in love with the stable girl.”

“Kate?” asked Steve, with great surprise. “ I can't believe that. Have you seen his face when he looks at you? You’re the only person he’s likely to fall in love with.”

Bucky couldn’t hold in a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “You could not be more wrong. They spend time together every day, at the range. They are very close.”

“So are you and he,” said Steve, and he put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him around to fix him with the stubborn expression that Bucky had seen him turn on school masters, superior officers, and even Wellington himself once. “He is very lucky to be married to you and I am more than sure that he knows it, Bucky. Don’t ruin this for yourself by doubting it. If you keep acting towards him as you have been, I can’t believe he won’t end up in love with you.”

“I’m not the man you remember,” Bucky reminded him. “The one that used to charm debutantes.”

“No,” agreed Steve, picking up the lantern and preparing to leave the stables. “You’ve grown up since then. Now you’re the man that charms his husband.”

He walked out before Bucky could argue back, taking the light with him so that Bucky had to stride after him or risk being left alone in the dark.

Just for that, Bucky was going to wait until they were back with Reverend Wilson before making a pointed comment about how completely Steve seemed to have settled in here, almost as if he didn’t intend to ever leave.

****

Bucky did his best to keep an open mind and watch for whatever Steve had seen after that, but for all that it was clear that Clint was friendly with him, it didn’t negate all the time he spent with Kate at the range. Or that he still turned down Bucky's invitations to join him on his morning ride, but headed out on Arrow with Kate beside him on one of the other horses every few days.

All of Bucky's simmering emotions came to a head when he handed Alpine’s reins to Morita one morning after his ride, then turned to head back to the house just in time to see Clint and Kate slipping into the old doghouse together, glancing warily over their shoulders.

Bucky’s father had built the doghouse when he was young, in order to house his hunting dogs. Bucky had never cared much for the hunt and when he’d returned from Spain to become the master of Brooklyn, after his parents’ deaths, he hadn’t seen the point of keeping them. He’d sold the whole pack to Lady Danvers, and the master of the hounds had gone with them. The head groom had gone too, because he’d been married to the master of the hounds, but that had opened up the position for Morita so Bucky hadn’t minded much.

Since then, the doghouse had been used for storage and not much else. Bucky had half-thought about tearing it down but there hadn’t seemed much point when he had nothing to replace it with.

It seemed Clint and Kate had found a use for it, however.

Bucky took a deep breath, letting his eyes shut and scrubbing at his face with his hand. What were they up to in there? It had to be something nefarious, or they wouldn’t have looked so furtive, and for the life of him Bucky couldn’t think of anything it might be other than an illicit liaison.

His husband really was in love with the stable girl. Bucky tried to swallow back the hurt but it was too much, overflowing out of his chest until tears pricked at his eyes. He would really never get to be anything other than the man Clint had married to escape his father.

He wondered how often Clint and Kate had crept into the doghouse together over the last few weeks. How long since all Bucky’s hopes had been nothing but dust?

He could imagine all too well what they were doing right now. Clint holding Kate in his arms, leaning in to kiss her with that quiet smile that meant he was perfectly content with being exactly where he was, the one he usually had when he was at his range.

Of course, that was the thing. If being with Kate made Clint happy then, well. Bucky wanted him to have her. No matter how much it felt like a knife stabbing into his heart. What he really didn’t want, though, was for Clint to be keeping secrets from him. If he wanted Kate, then he should know that Bucky would back off and let them have each other, and if he didn’t know that then Bucky should make sure he did.

Bucky found himself striding towards the doghouse before he’d finished the thought. If this was happening, then he wanted it all done with as soon as possible, all the hurt and loss suffered through at once so he could retreat to his rooms and start working on recovering from the wound.

He wasn’t sure how he would ever recover from the pain of Clint choosing someone else, but it wouldn’t be the first injury he'd received that was going to linger for the rest of his life.

He knocked on the wooden wall of the doghouse before pushing the door open to give Clint and Kate some warning, but the sight inside was nothing like he’d pictured.

Instead of two embracing lovers, or even two people who had recently sprung apart but still had kiss-reddened lips and dishevelled clothes, Clint was on his knees on a stack of straw in the corner, staring with horror over his shoulder at Bucky while Kate leaned back against the wall several feet away, arms crossed and nothing about her posture implying a secret tryst.

“Oh no,” said Clint, eyes going wide with terror as he saw Bucky, and that at least, was what Bucky had expected. “Bucky- you...Shit.”

“Clint,” Bucky said, because if he didn’t get this out now, he was just going to burst into tears, “you don’t need to hide this from me.”

“I told you so,” sing-songed Kate, and she kicked a handful of straw towards Clint, who just glared back at her. “Your husband is one of the few good men around, you really should spend more time listening to me, and less panicking.”

Bucky frowned, because that didn’t sound right. Surely even Kate wouldn’t be that relaxed after being found in a compromising situation with her employer’s husband?

Clint’s gaze darted back to Bucky and he still looked terrified, but Bucky was beginning to think he’d got the wrong idea.

“Please don’t throw him out,” said Clint, with desperation. “Please, he’s not hurting anyone, he’s not taking up any space that anyone is using, and I’ll do all the looking after him, I promise, he won’t use up anyone else’s time, just, please, Bucky, he’s hurt and he needs help and he’s _such_ a good boy.”

Bucky blinked at him with surprise because he’d never heard Clint sound like that, and then there was a movement in the straw next to Clint and Bucky finally tore his eyes away from Clint’s face long enough to realise there was a dog there. It was sprawled out as if exhausted, barely able to lift its head to look at Bucky, and he could see blood clotted in its coat. A bloody scrap of cloth was tied over one of its eyes.

“Oh,” he said, stunned. “What’s -?” He took a few steps closer and realised that Clint was holding a wet cloth that he must have been trying to clean the dog’s wounds with. “What happened to him?”

“Some of the village kids were beating him,” said Kate. “We frightened them off and brought him back here, but Cl- ah, Mr Barnes was worried you wouldn’t want him in the house, so he brought him here instead.”

The tone of her voice made it clear that she’d known that was a mistake.

“Please, Bucky,” said Clint again. “Just let me fix him up. I won’t keep him after that, I swear.”

Which was when Bucky managed to place the tone of his voice. It was the same one he used whenever Bucky did something that reminded Clint too strongly of his father and he was stuck back in the place in his mind that was terrified of being hurt.

Bucky looked at the dog again. “You can keep him for as long as you want,” he said, “but not in here. If he’s injured, he needs to be inside, in the warm.” He glanced at Kate. “Run to the kitchen and get them to start heating some water up for a bath. Ask Cook to sort out a bowl of water and some sort of food for an injured dog. She was working here when we had hounds, she should remember. And then run to the gamekeeper’s cottage and get Dugan, tell him to bring his supplies.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kate, grinning at him. She took a moment to send Clint a smug look that said _I told you so_ before she darted off.

Bucky looked down at the dog, and at Clint’s surprised face. “Do you want him in your room where you can take care of him, or in the kitchen where the servants will?”

“What?” asked Clint, weakly.

“I told you, he can’t stay here. It’s filthy and cold. He needs to be looked after if he’s going to recover,” said Bucky.

“Right,” said Clint, looking back at the dog. His face softened and his hand went out to stroke gently over the dog's ears. “In, ah. In my room. If that’s allowed?”

“Clint,” said Bucky heavily, and then had to rub at his face to stop his frustration boiling over. “I thought I’d told you. There’s nothing that’s not allowed. This is your house. If you want to fill it with injured animals, then you may do so.”

“Oh,” said Clint, then he drew in a deep breath. “Of course. That’s- Thank you.”

Bucky couldn’t stand to be thanked for merely acting as any decent person would. He shook his head. “You’ll have to carry him,” he said, because the dog was too large for Bucky's one arm and the riding prosthetic he was still wearing wouldn't be any help. “Come on, they’ll be getting the hot water ready.”

Clint nodded, leaning down to scoop the dog into his arms, moving so carefully that the dog only whined a little and then collapsed against his chest as Clint stood up.

Bucky felt a brief thrum of jealousy, because he wanted so badly to be held in those arms and to be able to snuggle against that chest, and then suppressed it because now was not the time. “Come on,” he said, moving to hold open the door for Clint. “The sooner Dum Dum has a look at him, the better.”

****

As they headed inside the house, Bucky saw Kate running across the lawn in the distance, in the direction of Dum Dum’s cottage.

“Dum Dum is good at treating animals,” he said to Clint as he held the door open for him. Clint’s entire attention was focused on the dog, on not jostling him any more than he could help and gently patting the patch of fur under his hand as they headed inside. “He’ll be able to help him.”

“It’s his ribs I’m worried about,” said Clint. “And his eye.”

The dog made a distressed noise and tried to move, and Clint shushed him. “Hey, it’s alright, you’re going to be alright,” he said softly. “We’re going to get you all better, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

God, Bucky loved him so much.

As they went up the stairs, Bucky caught sight of a couple of maids staring from where they were dusting the entrance hall. “Beth, run to the kitchen and let Cook know we’ll need the food and water in Mr Barnes’s room,” he said. “Christina, we’ll need bandages or cloths of some kind, could you find some old sheets or something?”

They both curtsied and ran off, which meant they were no longer watching the way Clint’s arm muscles were bulging under the weight of the dog, straining the seams of his jacket.

He and Clint climbed the stairs and Bucky held Clint's bedroom door open for him. Clint took the dog inside and set him down on the rug by the fireplace as Coulson came out of the dressing room and then hesitated for a fraction of a second, taking in the sight.

“I’ll bring some cushions for him to lie on, sir,” he said and disappeared again, as silently efficient as he always was.

Bucky wasn’t even sure Clint had heard because he was too focused on the dog, on making sure he was comfortable.

“You’re going to be alright,” Bucky heard him say again as he gently ran his hand over the parts of the dog that weren’t injured. “I told you I’d look after you, right? And, hey, here we are, all warm and cosy. I’m going to take care of you.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bucky, and gave him a grateful smile. “ _We’re_ going to take care of you,” he added.

Bucky did his very best not to melt.

Clint’s eyes darted to the doorframe that Bucky was awkwardly leaning against, and he started to open his mouth before the confusion disappeared and he clearly remembered Bucky’s promise not to come in without permission. Bucky smiled at him so he knew that he was fine where he was, so he didn't feel pressured at all.

“The servants will bring everything you need,” he said, pitching his voice loudly so that Clint would hear clearly. “And Dum Dum will be able to patch him up.”

Clint nodded, looking distracted, then his jaw clenched with decisiveness. “You should come in,” he said. “Come and meet this good boy.”

Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest. “Clint…” he said softly, probably too softly for Clint to hear him, but Clint’s eyes darted to his lips, then back up to his eyes.

“Come into my room, Bucky,” he said firmly, and Bucky moved even as the pleasure was still expanding in his chest.

He’d been inside that particular bedroom hundreds, thousands of times over his lifetime. It had been his mother’s before her death and she’d always been happy for him and Becca to go and watch her getting ready for a ball, or crawl into her bed before breakfast and be told fairy stories.

He hadn’t been in it much after he’d come back from Spain and moved into his father’s old room next door as the new master of Brooklyn, but while they’d been redecorating it for Clint he’d been in there often enough for the decorators to have got thoroughly annoyed with him, although they did their best not to show it. There was no reason why crossing the threshold and walking over to drop to his knees next to Clint should have felt like striking out into new territory, but it did.

“This is Bucky,” Clint said to the dog. “My husband.” He glanced at Bucky. “He’s a good man,” he added, “you’ll be safe with him.”

Bucky wanted to reach out and take his hand or, so much more, lean in and kiss him, but he instead focused on the dog, reaching out to gently pet him. “Hello, dog,” he said. “You’re very lucky to have been rescued by a man like Clint.”

Clint went faintly pink and he ducked his head, curling his fingers through the dog’s fur, close enough to Bucky’s that for a moment they touched. Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and then Dum Dum burst in with a bag.

“What have you dragged in now, Lieutenant?” he asked, dropping down next to the dog and giving him a brisk look over. “Always picking up waifs and strays, hey, sir?”

“Actually, Mr Barnes picked this one up,” said Bucky, moving back out of Dum Dum’s way and standing up.

“He needed help,” said Clint, stubbornly, and then fixed Dum Dum with a look Bucky was glad wasn’t aimed at him because he’d have moved heaven and earth for Clint if he looked at him like that. “You can fix him up, can't you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Dum Dum, running a hand over the dog’s chest and wincing. “Whether or not it takes is up to the luck of the draw.”

Clint glanced back at Bucky. “I think we already decided he’s very lucky indeed.”

Bucky got caught on his smile for a moment or two, and when Clint finally pulled his eyes away, Dum Dum was pulling medical supplies out of his bag. Bucky eyed the needle and thread and had to take a deep breath, because medical supplies now reminded him all too much of being treated by rough bandit hands after his arm had been amputated.

The maids arrived, bringing bandages, warm water to wash the dog, cold water for him to drink, and some sort of mushed up food that he’d hopefully be able to eat a little of, and then Coulson came in with a couple of large cushions for a bed, and Bucky decided the room was full enough. He couldn’t do much to help right now, and Dum Dum was peeling back the blood-stained cloth covering the dog’s eye, revealing a mess of gore that made Bucky’s stomach turn over.

He slipped out of the room and took a deep breath, and then headed down to the kitchen to let Cook know that Clint would have a cold lunch in his room. From the way Clint had been looking at the dog, Bucky didn’t see him leaving his side any time soon.

He wondered what it would be like to have Clint look at him like that, and then pushed the thought away as unhelpful.

****

Clint and Dum Dum stayed in Clint’s room with the dog for an hour or two, during which time Bucky did his best to look as if he were getting on with other things and not at all hovering in the vicinity where he’d hear any news as soon as possible but not risk seeing any treatment that would send him into one of his episodes.

He needn’t have worried. The first thing Dum Dum did when he left Clint’s room was to find Bucky and report to him.

“It’s touch and go on the dog,” he said. “I’ve got all his wounds patched up - he’s lost that eye completely, but it’s a clean wound, it should heal fine if he gets through the next day or so.”

Bucky nodded. “Infection,” he said heavily, because he’d seen enough men die that way in Spain to know just how dangerous it could be.

Dum Dum nodded. “He’s only got a light fever at the moment and I’m hoping it won’t get much worse. Your boy is good with him, so he’s being well looked after. He’s coaxing him to drink more water than I would have expected, which is a good sign.”

“Mr Barnes, not ‘my boy’,” corrected Bucky, but his heart wasn’t really in making sure the correct forms of address were used. If the dog did get worse and die, it was going to devastate Clint. Bucky couldn’t stand to see that. “Is there anything else we can do?”

Dum Dum shook his head. “It’s just time now,” he said. “Best just to keep him quiet and comfortable, and hope for the best.”

Bucky nodded and wished he still believed in God so that he could at least pray that Clint wasn’t about to get his heart broken.

Dum Dum slapped his shoulder in a friendly manner. “No need to look so long-faced, sir. He might yet make it. Things look better than I feared when I first saw him. Mr Barnes has a good sense for taking care of injuries.”

Probably because he’d had too many of his own as a child, thought Bucky bleakly, then took a deep breath and nodded at Dum Dum. He was right. All they could do was wait.

****

Clint didn’t come down for dinner but Bucky hadn’t really been expecting him to. Instead, he asked the kitchen to make up a tray and got a footman to carry it upstairs for him. He knocked gently on Clint’s door, then harder when there was no response, rolling his eyes at himself for thinking Clint would hear something that soft when he was no doubt completely focused on the dog.

Clint opened the door with no jacket on, his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his waistcoat hanging open. It was the most dishevelled Bucky had ever seen him, and it made him want to push him against the wall and mess him up even more.

Instead, he stepped back and gestured at the footman holding the tray. “I brought you some dinner.”

“Oh,” said Clint, blinking dumbly at the food, then glancing back into the room. “Thank you.”

He reached out to take the tray and the footman gave a bow and faded away, clearly very aware how unwanted he was.

“How’s the dog doing?” Bucky asked.

Clint gave a helpless little shrug. “Come in and see, if you want,” he offered, moving away from the door.

Bucky wasn’t about to turn down a second invitation into Clint's room. He followed him inside, shutting the door behind himself.

The dog was sprawled out on the cushions in front of the fireplace. His injured eye was covered with layers of dressing and he was wrapped in numerous bandages, all of them pristine white. He was panting and occasionally twitching with a quiet whimper.

Bucky crouched beside him and wondered what a dog too sick to live looked like as opposed to one that would pull through. “You’re going to be alright, boy,” he said, as comfortingly as he could, because he’d have loved to have heard an encouraging voice while he was healing up from losing his arm. “You’re in the best hands.”

Clint snorted, crouching beside him and giving the dog a worried look. “I don’t know about that. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Dum Dum wouldn’t have left you alone with him if that were true,” said Bucky.

Clint shrugged. “He’s my responsibility,” he said. “I rescued him, it’s up to me to do what I can to fix him. Isn’t that right, lucky boy?” He reached out and gently touched one of the dog’s unbandaged paws. He winced. “He’s so warm,” he said, reaching for a cloth in a nearby bowl of water and carefully patting over the dog’s body, then holding it to his mouth, squeezing a few drops out onto the dog’s tongue. “I don’t-” his voice broke and he took a deep breath. “Bucky. I don’t know that he’s going to make it.”

“If he doesn’t," said Bucky, “it won’t be because of you. You’re doing everything you can.” He took the cloth out of Clint’s hands. “You eat, I’ll look after him for a bit.”

As Bucky patted down his neck, the dog huffed out a breath, his one good eye rolling to look at Bucky. If he were feverish, did that mean he was hallucinating like a man would? What did dogs even hallucinate about?

“You don’t have to-” started Clint, so Bucky took the time to fix him with a glare that he hoped summed up his feelings about the rest of that statement, and Clint shut his mouth, then let out an amused breath. “Very well, as you wish.”

He took the tray over to his dressing table and sat down to eat it, and Bucky shifted to settle more comfortably next to the dog.

"Dugan said cold water around his ears and paws," said Clint, and Bucky nodded, pressing the damp cloth to the dog's fur. The dog just panted tiredly at him, his one good eye half-closed in exhaustion.

"We're a set, aren't we?" he said to him, trying to be soothing. "One eye, one arm, damaged hearing. At least you'll fit in here."

Clint let out a snort of amusement and Bucky glanced up at him, taking in the smile on his face and rendered incapable of not returning it. He remembered the heart-stopping moment of loss earlier, when he'd thought Clint had chosen Kate instead of him and he'd have to stage a dignified retreat. That he had instead been allowed into Clint's room, to share space with Clint while he was this relaxed, eating a meal at his desk with his clothes out of place from caring for the dog, was a gift he hadn't been prepared for. 

Clint ate quickly then came to sink down onto the floor next to Bucky, taking another cloth from the bowl of cool water and patting down his fur.

"How're you doing?" he asked, as the dog shifted under his hands and turned his head just enough to look at Clint with a look of single-minded devotion that Bucky understood all too well. "Has Bucky been looking after you, you lucky thing?"

Bucky snorted. "Not sure that makes him lucky," he said. "It seems as if you're much better at this than I am."

Clint raised a pointed eyebrow at him. "I had him on a pile of straw in an abandoned outhouse." He hesitated and then added in a more formal tone, "I owe you an apology for that."

"Are you talking to me or the dog?" asked Bucky with a frown.

"You," said Clint. "I should have known that you wouldn't be angry or cruel about it. Kate kept trying to tell me that I didn't need to hide him from you. I should have known she was right, and that I could trust you."

Bucky hadn't let his mind dwell on that yet, although he would probably end up lying awake going over and over it in bed tonight. He'd tried so hard to win Clint's trust, but he must have completely failed if Clint thought he couldn't be told about an injured dog. Bucky couldn't let himself feel the stab of that until he had enough time alone to truly wallow in it, though.

"It's fine," he said, moving in preparation to stand up. 

"No, it's not," said Clint, putting his hand on Bucky's forearm. It was the softest of touches, but more than enough to keep Bucky in place. "I knew, deep down, that no one who has been as kind and patient with me as you have been would be angry about me looking after a hurt creature, but I just…" He stopped and gritted his teeth with frustration. "My father hates dogs," he said. "All animals, really, other than his horses, although he never spends time with them. He just likes to boast about them. Dogs and cats, anything like that, are strictly forbidden inside Waverley Hall. There are some around the estate, but nowhere he might see them."

He paused to take a breath and Bucky stayed as still as possible, waiting for whatever was coming next.

"When I was eleven," continued Clint, "one of the estate dogs had a litter in the woodshed. I was young and stupid, and I wanted a puppy desperately, so I took one and smuggled it to my room."

Bucky could tell from the tone of his voice that this was going to be bad. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out for Clint, to try and comfort him, before remembering himself and pulling back. Clint's eyes had caught the movement though and he set his hand on top of Bucky's, clinging on tightly as he continued. For a moment, all Bucky could concentrate on was the feel of Clint's hand in his, warm and calloused and the perfect size.

"My father found out, of course," said Clint. "I was not nearly careful enough. He was furious and he…" Clint took a deep breath and Bucky squeezed his hand. "He hit me hard around the head, worse than he ever had before. The puppy was," he paused again and Bucky realised he was on the verge of crying. "He tried to intervene, and my father kicked him. He flew across the room and hit the wall, and I heard his bones crack."

"Oh God," said Bucky, unable to keep in his horror. 

Clint nodded. "My father hit me again and I was knocked unconscious, and when I woke up," he gestured at his ears with the hand not clinging to Bucky's, "my hearing didn't work the same. And the puppy was dead."

"God, Clint, I'm so sorry," said Bucky.

Clint gave a sort of shrug, as if trying to dismiss that. "That's what I kept thinking about when I thought about bringing this dog inside," he said. "And I knew it was stupid, I know you're not my father and wouldn't hurt a dog, but it was all I could think about, until I was too scared to risk it."

He sounded as if he were on the verge of tears, and Bucky couldn't stand it. "Hey, hey," he said. "It's fine, I understand. These shadows from the past never quite let us go." 

Clint took a deep breath, then met Bucky's eyes with a resolute look. "I still owe you an apology," he said. "I know I don't have to hide anything from you. I'm going to try not to forget it again."

The dog shifted uneasily, making an unhappy noise, and Clint's attention was arrested before Bucky got too caught in the blue of his eyes and declared his undying devotion. 

"Aw, you poor thing, I know it hurts," said Clint, letting go of Bucky's hand so he could pat at the dog again, soaking his cloth in the bowl of water. "I'm going to look after you, don't worry, sweetheart. You’ll be safe in Bucky's house."

Bucky started to sigh, prepared to correct Clint again, but he didn't need to.

Clint sent him a sideways look, then looked back at the dog. "Our house," he amended.

Bucky gave him a beaming smile, feeling hope lift his heart for the first time in a week or two. He might still have a chance of winning Clint's love.

****

Bucky stayed as long as he dared in Clint's room, talking to him while Clint looked after the dog, trying to cool his fever and coax water into him. However, Bucky could only be there so long before he began to feel in the way, especially when the dog's temperature began to rise instead of fall and Clint started missing half of Bucky's words in his distraction.

"I'll send a footman to collect your tray, and to bring fresh water for the dog," he said as he stood up. Clint gave a vague nod, frowning down at the dog with anxious eyes and muttering reassurances to it.

Bucky left him to it and went to find his own dinner, which had long since gone cold under a silver lid in the dining room. 

He knocked on Clint's door again when he went to bed but clearly wasn't heard and he didn't want to push. Instead, he retired to his room and lay down, staring out of the window at the gibbous moon and hoping as hard as he could that the dog pulled through. 

If he didn't, it would be easy enough to get Clint a puppy, now he knew Clint wanted one, but Bucky knew it wouldn't be the same.

Besides, the one-eyed blond mutt had won Bucky's heart over as well as Clint's, with his patient suffering and clear, understandable devotion to Clint.

If he did survive, he'd need a collar. Bucky's eyes slid shut as he contemplated where to get a length of purple leather, and he let his mind wander further to if the local blacksmith would be able to engrave an archery design on a tag or if would be best to find a jeweller to do that kind of delicate work. And if he was sourcing purple leather, he could take the chance to make Clint a matching cuff for his archery, as his current one was worn.

He was starting to doze off, so the metallic click echoed through the silence of his bedroom like a gun being cocked. He startled as if it had been, sitting bolt upright with his heart thumping in his chest and the sensation of weight crushing his chest that usually signalled the beginning of one of his episodes. 

There was a further sound that he realised, with a rush of adrenalin, was the handle of the door between his room and Clint's. A sliver of light appeared as the door opened, and swung wider to reveal Clint carrying a candle.

He was dressed only in a nightshirt that seemed a little short for him and Bucky's eyes caught on his bare feet and the elegant curve of his calves, still feeling half asleep as Clint moved closer, the light of his candle flickering so the the dark shadow at the open neck of the shirt was pushed away to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. 

Oh God, Clint was in his bedroom with only a single layer of thin linen covering his body.

"Bucky, are you awake?" asked Clint in a hushed tone, and Bucky snapped out of his daze to realise that this was really happening, and wasn’t just the start of one of his many fantasies about similar scenarios.

"Clint?" he asked, then realised with a sick feeling the most likely reason for Clint to have breached the boundary between them. "Is the dog worse?"

"No," said Clint, now close enough to set his candle on the table by Bucky's bed. He hesitated for a moment, then sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough for Bucky to feel the shape of his thigh through the bedclothes. It felt like every part of his body was thrumming with excitement. “The opposite, in fact. I think his fever broke. He drank a whole lot of water and then went to sleep, and it seems like proper sleep, not that he’s just out of his senses.”

“That’s great news,” said Bucky, relief rolling through him. “I’m so glad, Clint.”

Clint nodded uncertainly, glancing at the candle for a moment before back at Bucky. “Yes. He was well enough that I went to bed, but I was just lying there, thinking about how close it had been and how I could have lost him if you hadn’t arrived.”

“You’re the one who’s spent the whole day at his side,” Bucky pointed out, but Clint either didn’t hear him or wasn’t paying attention because he pressed on.

“I wanted to thank you,” continued Clint, and he reached out to take hold of Bucky’s hand in one of his, clinging on tightly. Bucky turned his hand so that he could twine their fingers together, his heart leaping in his chest at the feel of Clint’s warm skin against his. “And I didn’t want to wait until breakfast, I wanted to see you right now and tell you how much I appreciate that you got everyone involved: Dugan, the maids, the cook, everyone, just because I found a stray dog I wanted to take care of.”

Bucky had no idea what to say to that. What else could he have done? Left the dog to die? Or left Clint, who was still so wary of using the full resources of Brooklyn, to try and look after him on his own?

“So, I really appreciate it,” said Clint, awkwardly, and gave a shrug that Bucky only caught the vaguest movement of in the dim light. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” said Bucky, and then repeated it when it came out low and breathy, because he wanted to be sure Clint could hear him. “You didn’t wake me, and even if you had, Clint, you must realise that you’re always welcome here, or anywhere else that I am.”

The darkness of his room, lit only by the moon outside and the candle Clint had brought - not to mention the intimacy of Clint sitting as close as he was, holding Bucky’s hand - was making all Bucky’s emotions rise up into his throat. He felt like he’d have to either choke on them or let them out.

Clint took a deep breath, and his head ducked. “Yes,” he said. “That’s- That’s what I realised, when I was lying in bed trying to tell myself I should wait until the morning. So, I decided that if I wanted to come to talk to my husband, and my husband would want me to come to talk to him, I just...should.”

Bucky clutched tighter at his hand, wishing he still had a second one so that he could cradle it in both. “I’m really glad you did. And that the dog is doing better.”

“Yes,” said Clint, and he took a deep breath. “Bucky, I- You’ve said that you think I’m beautiful-”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Bucky, because he couldn’t keep his lips sealed on the truth when he was this close to Clint and feeling so much for him.

Clint ducked his head, but continued his sentence, “-and that you knew when you first saw me that you wanted to marry me.”

“Yes,” agreed Bucky again.

Clint hesitated, then wrapped his other hand around Bucky’s, holding it tightly. “I just- I think I get what you mean by that now,” he said, in a low rush of words. “I think- Bucky. You’re beautiful too.” While Bucky was still processing that, trying to wrap his mind around it, Clint leaned in and pressed a fast, dry kiss to his lips. “I’m really glad I’m married to you.”

Bucky couldn’t ever seem to stop pushing for more with Clint, so having been given that perfect gift of a moment, of course his mouth opened and he said something that could have destroyed it. He just couldn’t stop himself.

“I love you.”

Clint let out a half-laugh. “Yes, that’s been made clear,” he said. “Even if I don’t understand why.” He paused, and then added, “Just keep being patient with me. Give me time.”

“You can have all the time you want,” said Bucky, his heart leaping because that had sounded as if Clint thought he might one day feel the same. “You have my whole life.”

Clint let out another of those warm chuckles, then he was leaning in close again, and this time Bucky wasn’t going to let him get away with a brief kiss, not when he finally had a chance to try and show Clint exactly how much he cared about him.

He leaned in at the same time, pressing his lips to Clint and then, when Clint didn’t immediately move away, taking his time to truly feel the shape of them against his, parting his so that he could apply the barest amount of his tongue to Clint’s lower lip.

He made himself pull away before he could take it any further. Clint’s eyes were wide and dark in the candle light and for a moment Bucky thought he had pushed too far, then Clint smiled at him, tiny and shy but enough to make Bucky beam back at him, unafraid for the first time of letting his whole heart show on his face.

“I love you for a thousand different reasons,” he said, because it was unacceptable that Clint couldn’t see why Bucky had found it so easy to fall in love with him. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to list them all, because it seems every day brings a new one.”

Clint went very still, and Bucky immediately knew he’d gone too far. ‘Be patient’ and ‘give me time’ didn’t mean ‘immediately pour out the very depths of your soul’.

Before he could apologise or find some other way to pull back his mistake, Clint took a deep breath and said, so quietly that Bucky wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it, “One day I’ll let you tell me some of them.”

He pulled away as soon as he’d said it, standing up and picking up his candle again, and darted back to the door between their rooms like a spirit trying to out-run the dawn. The door shut very gently behind him and Bucky let out a long breath, unable to do much more than sit there dumbly in the dark, trying to understand what had just happened and waiting for the soft sound of the key turning in the lock again.

It never came.


End file.
